Who could deny this is our land now? Now milk
witch, monk’s head, piss-a-bed, we alone
open to the light—call us

as you like: encroachment. An encampment. We claw
over earth, unfurling
flowers, knit so close we know power, we

walk as one, infest as one,
indistinguishable—one seed
-headed clock counting down. And what

evidence otherwise? Tell us. Remember
how you Mayflowered us. Wanted us.
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