the scent of one thousand dead catipillars
torment their ungrateful black wings.
it's saturday morning and we should be sleeping
to the sound of rain on the pavement
outside our treacherous window
that overlooks the future of lawnmowers.
the equalizers demand chaos for company
or the hum of an air conditioner in june,
but we are damned to wrestle with serenity
and the small orange shadow chasing it's tail.
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