10/10/13 The Eastern Gray Squirrel flies from Boxwood to power line to fetch for her blossoming batch. This is a usual sight. That carcinomic killer winded her with a steel heel, and despite history, I suck home rolled maple-honey cigarettes. The Italians know the ultimate truth: douse the smoking throat with mineral water. She began to droop like “a dollop of Daisy”, yet we pumped her on, medically aided. Five eyeless bots plugged into her; just a box, a motor, a timer and an air pump. It would purr awake, perfect breath of mechanical hummingbird. We turned it on. We turned it off. Death is a befuddling gathering process conducted by a pail riddled with hospice shaped holes; two blind hands cupping wisps of smoke, never the whole plume. it’s perfume: Cavicide. The modern squirrel brings her nut by power line back to flowering Boxwood. Once her scurry is able, it will adopt the practice of deployment. The mother nests unconcerned; shelter, food, occasional tussle. This will be thus until she dies, asleep in her drey. While embalmed in our heads is preserving our dead. Extending them like taffy until they transparentize in the middle, and break apart in our hands.
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