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 His awful skin 
stretched out by some tradesman 
is like my skin, here between my fingers, 
a kind of webbing, a kind of frog.
Surely when first born my face was this tiny and before I was born surely I could fly.
Not well, mind you, only a veil of skin from my arms to my waist.
I flew at night, too.
Not to be seen for if I were I'd be taken down.
In August perhaps as the trees rose to the stars I have flown from leaf to leaf in the thick dark.
If you had caught me with your flashlight you would have seen a pink corpse with wings, out, out, from her mother's belly, all furry and hoarse skimming over the houses, the armies.
That's why the dogs of your house sniff me.
They know I'm something to be caught somewhere in the cemetery hanging upside down like a misshapen udder.

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