Birds deride fences and roofs
Being too small to blur the breath
By stones and lampposts twisted into a spiral.
No bedtime story is good for gods: they need
Something terribly awkward like losing a credit card.
Centaurs have left the planet. Unable to build a spaceship,
They simply ran away. And juvenile saints
Turn trees into ketchup unhindered.
I wake up and laugh like an idiot watching
Street musicians beat the shit out of the aliens
After each landing, inevitably.


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