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CONTRAPASTORAL 

Luiza Flynn-Goodlett | Poetry

When you find me 
prone, enumerating  

mosses or observing  
a banana slug’s trek  

up redwood, know 
I’ve turned, sighing,  

from the great works  
of men, dumped like 

the moldering couch 
beside a county road;  

renounced language,  
all misunderstanding;  

shook off the cobwebs 
of names. So little of  

me isn’t plastic, glass,  
concrete. What am I,  

on my knees, without 
the squawking I took     

for words? A dragonfly  
hovers here in the air,  

but I cannot describe  
him. I wouldn’t dare.