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Evelyn Hampton

 

 

 

A plant divided the room into “good” and “bad” and the room became conscious of itself.

A disease that’s bigger than the body—beauty?

I bend from you to touch the ground when grass is read. That’s how it spreads.

 

 

 

Evolution

 

 

I ran to where the artificially inseminated elephant was against herself.

Like religion I had to pass through the elephant

To the human, a little stick

With a message attached, something lunar.

 

Blue hoops flew through me

An echo ran past

 

A thing hung its tongue from me

The tongue hung its lung from me

And heaved in a language of gas. 

 

The real me is the one in the monkey mask. A tree showed me that.

I slept on a small machine of grass.

The country overran dust, meaning to outlast us. 

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