tell me where the hereafters live.
i don't want a future in telephones. i want
jaws & lips. i want to bite down through soil
& hear all the trees swinging. you hold out 
your hand & i trace a trail through the thick wood.
a path without a name that deer have followed
for centuries down into the forests' stomachs. 
there, hearts grow like dandelions. shovel yellow & then 
so easily blown to eyelashes. that is where i go
to dig for the question i haven't found yet.
the one that might exist at the end of a tooth,
swaying beneath "yes" & "no." 

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