Performance Art
At dusk the wingless hollow blob climbs
Her sea-squirts mast and lights her lamp
To lure the airbourne lump-sucker
Her wood louse ugly lavatory bowl
As though by magic beautiful
A chip of cold parsnip trowel
While cruising urgent belly upward
Line ten deep bun tins with X-chromozomes
And join the female sandwich surprise
To consummate her eleventh hour
Though common once in any heap
Those magic tadpoles now are flowers
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