virgin, unarrived at

there’s an us-shaped patch of uncrushed grass,
an ant platoon scurrying on unharmed,
a spider’s net set with dewy diamonds,
that my lazy fingers haven’t torn yet.
a bird cooing, self-satisfied idiot.
when, it should have been me, my sound.
and an evening sun waxing flame,
a weak copy of my afterglow.

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