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Is it wrong to
want to be that gray-tailed squirrel
who dines on the peel of my unfinished apple,
newly fished from the dumpster?
The relish with which he splits
the golden peel between his claws,
gnaws the flesh away.
Or better, the starlings that bully
their way to feeder, clean the grounds of its seed.
Their black beaks clicking on the concrete,
clearing the café tables of their crumbs.
This is how I loved you, you know.
With the endless hunger of birds,
the small-handed feasting of squirrels.
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