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Daniel 7 / To Be Feral

— Willie Kinard III

In the dream where chimeras emerge from the sea,
Daniel fantasizes of water-winged options & I am the beast.

Our frames melt into a shifting torrent of limbs,
first ten, then fewer, then ten again,
an ever-change reminding us we only exist as theory,
once here, briefly, then no longer.

In the second half, I trace his dripping, his drowning,
the time it takes to write a praying man wet
& emptied in the hollows of a thing he calls monster,
the work considered to sing yourself well afterwards.

In the night, to be feral is to be a possibility.
Even when outlined in lace.

He sleeps & an unbound if bites at both of us.
I try to beat it without losing any teeth.
He wakes up & one of mine has gotten looser.

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