you are a japanese green-tea beetle
and you're trapped between an expanse
of white, smooth paper
and the green-head flies buzzing
at the screen door
at the back of the used-book store on main street.
the store rumbles.
the train horn blows a violent kind of warning
and an inch worm no bigger
than your right antenna
falls from the sky,
joining your expansive white journey
to the door before closing.
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