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The spit of land curved out into the ocean like a cow jaw
kicked up in the woods. I couldn’t pick up fear and shake it off,
but in a ‘can do’ way, yes I could,
and then yes I was
exiting the fang, my far away vacation cottage,
one of the jaw’s remaining teeth,
and walking that bone with a pill bug, disturbed
but still attached, come around, come top-side.
And then, in that squinty, mist-heightened ocean light,
congregated with other pill bugs,
though most of them blew along
in their protective balls. A few, though, stopped,
unballed. “It’s a perfect day for it,” one stretching out said.
“Won’t you ball up and blow along with me?”
I couldn’t refuse.
“We don’t believe in bone,” said the pill bug,
as we balled along, “instead in its likenesses
to bigger things.” “Like I was saying,” I said.
“Like you were saying what?” the bug said.
“Like a spit,” he said, “we infirmly hold a place in this world.
So why would you say that
the wind bites, say that about anything
that helps move us along?”
“Did I say that?” I asked, and came unballed.
“Not yet,” he said, as he blew ahead,
“but I feel it coming.”
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