The black shape of deer with a yellow head hangs over, listens to the body of my machine, the body of my machine repeats itself in nature, congresses in sessions, sideswiping it. Captures the whites also known as the undivided bellies of second-growth trees- my machine who howls with everyone of its vipers, every finger of potable liquid, every ring around its tail, the contraband all stuffed in the bodies of dogs who are waiting at some edge of some musculature they may not ridge. I may not go rigid when, impressed upon me, a natural configuration blows the coop. You see those Canada geese. You see the way I pull aside.
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