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Carolina Ebeid

I Am a Little World Made Cunningly



Thou Unreadable,

how weighty your thoughts


seem to me, how numerous


along your mind’s abacus.

I don’t suppose I look like you.


A man?  A panda,


a smiling panda is strung up

in the Elm & it startles


me to see that shape dangling


from the tree, upright & clothed

whose binomial name I memorized


for extra credit in grammar


school. My mind’s a bag of miscellany.

How would it all end in that fierce


sizzling brimstone end that has continually


been predicted for the world?

Here’s the world again.


Top of the morning to you,


birthday boy turned six. An inflatable

house for kids to bounce in. How they line up


in their tender socks


entering, exiting their wondrous pre-fab

future.  Ailuropoda melanoleuca. Silly head


of papier-mâché. A bat to thrash


its chest crowded with candy necklaces

& pencils. They bash & wallop


& tip the thing over

for the shiny foil drops, the head

emptied out of its beautiful thoughts.


I kneel & am still, Lord, & for this


I am suspicious of myself.

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