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Poem-a-Day

Grasshoppers

GRASSHOPPERS

Midsummer, I remember them
bolting against my bare legs,
a green, sexual strength.
August found them strewn
in the dust like busted springs.
I touched them with my shoe
to make sure
they were dead
before picking them up.
Packed tight on my dresser,
the jars looked like
those homemade bombs
packed with nails and screws
that no one
but the terrorist knows
never went off.
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