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Of Feeders and Cleaners
Grazing upon my hide,
lumbering,
ravenous beasts
farm,
crop, and munch upon
the harvest rich-fields
of my squamous integrum.
The dermatologist tells me not to worry,
that it’s just the normal microscopic
fauna and flora.
They clean away the dead,
vacuuming-up
the desiccated debris
and dander.
“We are not snakes” he says,
“we need help to shed.”
I can’t help thinking of those millions
of par-blind,
pig-like,
tank-shaped organisms
forever thriving,
feasting,
and then they themselves
decaying
upon my skin,
and they all-unknowing
that they are
most definitely not
the greatest creatures
ever to have roamed the earth!
Instinctual animalcules
constantly changing
the density
of the shadows I cast,
the thickness of my shedding.
Mites nibbling away at my silhouette,
until either it seems to be
far too heaped and corporal,
or way too transparent
to be seen in strong sunlight.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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