we force the hatch and pop it open as fresh air wafes through
the stale holding cell of our awareness
eyes shielded until they accustom to sight--
blur devolves to knife-sharp edges in a sudden focus--
there is no wonder--in the smoking crater of this once-neighborhood--
lizards in pants and amoebas in dresses slither--
three have spotted me--oh god--HERE THEY COME....
Content (c) 2008-2010 Philip Milito.
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