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Tornado
The foot of the hill is submerged in driftwood,
kite strings leading the eye up the hillsides
to balsa skeletons, broken frames that should
be rebuilt into harps and rocking chairs,
a new, raw décor to saturate the air
with sounds of thrumming use.
The landscaper has vanished and we're
left to peddle rabbit-torn clouds as curtains.
Our attics, our basements, all dumped on the hill
like toothpicks fallen from a picnic basket.
Ants and flies crawl through the wreckage,
their feet all pattering toward one end
like lemmings in archaeologist's boots.
The smaller ants carry wads of used gum,
out tongueprints still imbedded on them,
their feelers waving in possessed aplomb.
Structures rise from the mess, expanding
into gnarled wicker gateways and halls,
a surrealist subconscious carved in woodwork waste,
our havens nested and pooled into fallen falls.
-By Andrew Kozma
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