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Jen Tynes

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

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
blows the coop.
You see

those Canada geese.
You see the way
I pull aside.

Jen Tynes

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