there is a frog called sorrow at the back of my throat
it made a nest and its eggs develop beneath my tongue
conditions are perfect there warm moist quiet
there is a snake that lives in my stomach
she fell there, pregnant and unaware
now she flips about constantly, fighting her own death
and has buried her egg deep within me and now it tries to hatch
there is a squirrel on a treadmill just behind my left eye
he is a novelist with no ideas
so he sits frightened gazing into the world and whispers falsities about what he sees
to the crow that caws incessantly, nestled in my inner ear
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