Inner monologues are set forth in North America from deserts to mountaintops

in cutting room fashion,

measures between two and three feet in length,

runs hot and cold,

active only at night,

they feed principally on the difference between a pond and a lake

a haircut and a beheading
Digs shallow burrows,

blowing my nose and lying in bed with my shoes on,

settling into their new apartments in combination with fleas

larger than mice, grabs her shoulders and plants a kiss on her cheek,

their faces and buttocks marked with vivid purples and reds,

precisely because we are human
Having no technical meanings,

improvising his own plan, seemingly on a daily basis,

something very old

of which we have not freed and may never free ourselves

that decimated populations in 29 minutes

and the NBC broadcast it in full,

unedited,

including its tail		
Flashing back to the leaf mould of the forest floors

with scant regard for chronology

between moles and shrews

yet it also covered terrain as if we’re old friends and it occurs to me that maybe
we are.
(Collage poem, with text from articles in the November 23, 2017 issue of the New York Review of Books,

and from The Living World of Animals, Readers Digest Association, 1970)