Meat Windows

As I walked through the garden
I saw a small child
Throw a tooth
Over a wooden shed roof;

Red ink on my fingers,
Instructions in my back pocket,

I hurried to the greenhouse
And there it sat

Shimmering in the gravel
Under a bright autumn sun,

All speckled brown,
Chest peppered iridescent green,

A single stone on it’s limp,
Lifeless chest,

Shining like a long,
Painted pine cone,
A sycamore leaf
Curling to sleep.

I bent down
To pick it up,

It was oily to the touch
And light in the hand,

I felt my pulse
Through it’s rib cage,

Today is about deconstruction,
Tomorrow’s its noble rebirth.

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