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Frogless
The
sore trees cast their leaves
too early. Each twig pinching
shut like a jabbed clam.
Soon there will be a hot gauze of snow
searing the roots.
Booze
in the spring runoff,
pure antifreeze;
the stream worms drunk and burning.
Tadpoles wrecked in the puddles.
Here
comes an eel with a dead eye
grown from its cheek.
Would you cook it?
You would if.
The
people eat sick fish
because there are no others.
Then they get born wrong.
This
is not sport, sir.
This is not good weather.
This is not blue and green.
This
is home. Travel anywhere in a year, five years,
and you'll end up here.
Margaret
Atwood
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