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Horny Toads
Vodka bottles
stashed in the ragbag
torn out knees
in pajamas with feet
her daughter
never took off,
too small
in winter, cut off
in summer,
four grubby seasons.
Palo verde bent back
white spines scraping green skin,
writing in languages
no one alive
could speak, palo verde
bent back, pliable
feathers velvety
as the drunken tongue
we waited for her
to outgrow, silent
as horny toads
leathery bellows
burrowed into
brick-hard earth.
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