nonesense that I’m not afriad of

nonsense that I’m not afraid of

If I were a beetle, I’d be almost invisible, making a home in a corner somewhere, having things for dinner like lint and dust-bunnies.

If I caught course syllables, I’d iron them in summer heat against my beetle back.

And if I carried things on the outside, the inside would turn into a whirl of beetle-tongue.

Sometimes the ticking you hear is me, whistling about God, waiting for crumbs.

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