Cannibals, lean as the letter L after the Lent,
love to meet the children that scale scattered lampposts sown by aliens,
anomalous in height, love to see
their personalities peeling off like cabbage leaves one by one, dissolving
in the stratosphere. Watch these ubiquitous children
leave their gloves, shoes, and candy wrappers
on the sick grass, but unable to lose the sense of gravity and fly upward
toward cosmic apes and donkeys and the avant-kitsch pianists of the pungent clouds.
They blabber as if half of their teeth are missing or broken,
you can’t hear the words nor can you smell the breath,
and you desperately want to share the burden of being a witness.


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