Fins
in electric water
Find
me, how in the hell do they
Find
me, how in the hell do they
Do
what they do?
But
they do.
Find
me, that is.
Paper
trailing from my wounds
And
pockets, protracted investments
That
smell of pulp, of worth.
The
fins stooping in landfills
Puzzling
out the ideal combo,
Gathering
it in their bloodhound noses
Like
chum to fins, then fins to chums.
It is
all so very interesting,
Arresting
like their balletic eyes,
Eyes
armed with rawhide catchpoles
As
they chew my hands and heart
In the
tinniest off-dark.
Calling
it in is no easy task;
We
hate them for it, hate them all,
But
were it not for what they do,
We
might not be here with our
Air-conditioning
and power steering,
Fair
conditions and racketeering.
O ye
fins in electric water,
And
sometimes seas of paper too:
How is it you do just what you do?
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