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I’m a wholly-owned subsidiary
of myself, watching October winds
multiply little folk that live
as we the people inside sunshine.
My body inflates; the mind retracts,
spools backwards into its cocoon.
Halloween a ways off, yet already
it snows on prairies buffalo roamed.
I retrace the tracks I made
when but a bumbling babe,
and morph into a pangolin
then return as man again.
The genie stuffed back in its bottle
has nothing of importance to add.
The closer to any answer I inch
the faster away my question flees.
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