I Ask You to Stop in the Cruellest Way I Can Imagine


who are you? you’re a fish whistling
in the gulf of st. lawrence, maybe,
while a team of oceanographic researchers
goof off, listen to music, play darts.

the chalk paintings you draw in low tide
never last.
your complaints, outlined on brown paper
are recycled

who am I? I’m far away, pacing the Yellowstone Park
supervolcano, minding bison,
and in a glass I hardly care to focus
I see a blurry outline
trailing the smallest wake of any creature I have ever seen

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