That I am taken back, given back, that is, we are all on loan. Arboreal forest, I reaffirm my vows to you, my anthropomorphic costume. I came late to the village. The moon was an egg a lopsided angel might brood over. Appearing in a new place under scarves. The young man who drove me spoke of the possibility of a sacred life not tied to the market economy. All the little organs of hope stacked in a pile along the road, chunked and balanced there, everyone watching for the solid ones to pick up. I have an affinity for health. Things turn out well. Why should I always be the favorite. If doctors look far enough, they can always find something wrong, so many lives that are hard in the distance. Blood-smell, like tramping through mud. Scooping us, no, it, the animal body clean, each one of us a candidate for the slaughter. Recuperate, for what? Grandmothers, a word I use for all the un-attributable sources.

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