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Charles O. Hartman (1949– ) Petting Zoo Spring: the edges and middles of these roads blossom with corpses, raccoon, possum, crowlunch , bodies bloomed rosy into meat and gut, colors saturated. Eye catching until the eye learns better. The slow skunk lingers in brief afterlife either because the tail sacs burst on impact or because it tried to warn off what was coming. Pond-turtle crushed to lotus. Last week the fox flung itself under my fender—Last week I hit a fox—Last week my car— I could make this a poem about old lovers. I do worry, slowing down and then farther down, about being able to get anywhere. The thoughtful driver watches out at all times, maintaining 207 ChArles o. hArtmAn an easy and natural grip. I check my fluids weekly, night after night dream a dim on-ramp crowded with faint shapes, fur thick behind the ears, under my fingers, my lights, while the back legs jerk a couple of times. I don’t see for the life of me how I’d ever end that poem. My species is all crazy, think of it, mammals with wheels. ...

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