Like a child picking at the dead
Sliced-open body of a frog
I turn and turn the past
Somewhere there must be a pond
And a whole summer waiting
As he extracts its lovely eye
And places it carefully on a slide
And peers down into the microscope
And senses it's still alive
Not the eye only but what it sees
Looking up from the other end
A distant croaking of the heart
A ripple loosening the reeds
His first discovery of his part
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