Writing by H. V. Cramond
Pictured: Susan Ortha's son
Bury your corn feral
so big hands can never invade,
grabbing stripes and threatening kindergarten.
Cover with corpses of de-stuffed bears,
cavities inverted, fluffing scraped away
floating on warmer breezes.
Add stolen Skipper heads
that refuse to rot
even when Fall comes.
In your third arm, a sword, stirring.
Visit on second Tuesdays, reverently,
dropping tears to knees, diving under
because even your furry, talking fellows
have left you for someone who can see better.
What grows after will be all yours.
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