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The young alligator with golden teeth

cannot run in zigzag for what it's worth,
and I can't live in a push-up beneath
the Florida sun, near the torrid earth:
Agriculture "made" us into oxen,
and the Oregon Trail made us "Indians,"
veritable engines of mixed footmen,
that heard the lights of clay as time begins:
The gaps are jarring, but the water pure
that fills the space between the left and right
and leaves a trace that's too chiaro-obscure
to see the blankness of light's flagrant flight:
As the smoke clears and the dust gets clammy –
Think: Austin, Boston, of course Miami.
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