not counting other humans
and that because illiterate us
couldn’t read the fine print
in the contract we signed
with that itinerant fraudster
the Manhattan of the soul
traded for a few trinkets
will that turn out to be
what it’s worth prescient
as a fairytale our lives re-enact
safe from inside the sarcophagus
first and then from on the moon
our jogging balding gramma
in her nursing home of stars
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