Christmas brought me pestilence
and in the delousing I found, I
confess it, a primate pleasure.
It is sweet time spent
in childhood hair--its rows
of finitude. All ends.
Nitpick is not without its
recompense. Comb-scoured scalps
can make of new years open
fields. In one--petite beasts
who lurk, cling, and feed are sure.
Among them, I am animal again.
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