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No verbal Equivalent

By Mike Bagwell

Look up, it’s Broca at the top of the trail
kicking rocks at climbers.

A black lab sniffs through leaves
around the campfire, licking up anything
that managed to spill over, twitching an ear at
the occasional soft murmur from a tent.

Right when you want to say something
words rockslide out.

The frontal lobe chops up
reality and desire on the same plate
and no one remembered
the good knives.

Zippers wake up the sun and the ritual act
involves such delicate fingers of pine.

Look up, there’s a hawk’s nest,
tangled knot of branches,
two or three babies
speaking down to us.

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