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| 185 Gold Bug elizabeth spires Under the chair: old poems that scroll back through the years. Down on my knees, I dig through drafts of past lives. Something’s alive! Smaller than an o, a tiny beetle quietly lives there among words. The room is dry as a bone, with no stray crumb to feast on. So, scarab, how do you survive? Yes, that is the question. How to go on. My breath, measured and careful, blows you gently off the page to land on the swirling patterned carpet. Gold on gold now. Where you continue. ...

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