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If it’s hot for Madagascar,
what’s the point in Cameroon?
You’re six feet under water
on the bad side of the moon.
Bugs the size of RVs
bulge the kevlar screens of Maine.
Where are all the quiches
in the deserts of Lorraine?

Moguls in holo bunkers
enter Manet’s déjeuner;
nanohamadryads stir
and reassemble in the shade.
Tennis Bedu in their robes
Sufi courts by Hudson’s Bay.
Vial, uncut sunblock, goes
for thirteen Hockneys or a Mays.

Some past servitude,
friendless and outgunned,
hallucinate perspectival goods,
cards of gold and platinum.
Great heat shimmers above the roads
of Manhattan. Canoes are back
gliding by cliff windows,
making fewer trips through wider gaps.

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