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Timothy Bradford

Dear Hoa,

Thank you for reading so.
Godzilla was defeated last night, tangled
in the bridge’s cables, an antiphony
of lizard. Dimitri was rooting
for the lizards, giant lizards, superegos
to the ones he chases with Tristan,
catches in our backyard. Small lizards
in our backyard. Big lizards
on TV, and Dimitri rooted
with all his four-year-old chutzpah for them
against the city of New York. It looked
so good for the lizards at first, so bad
for the city of New York. And then,
as often happens in films
and sometimes in this world,
a peripeteia, or reversal of fortune,
and the lizards were blasted into charred
lizard bits or rocketed into submission while
swaying on a bridge. Dimitri
was crushed, wept like the world,
dead. That was a long digression
just to tell you thank you
for reading so, so I can see
properly the daily beauty of their hatchings
and waste less time fighting them
like a jet fighter so certain
of its aim, rocketry and victory—
inhumane. No room
for the terribly big and uncivilized
lizard of love.

Timothy Bradford

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