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Erratic Devil

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We recognize the smooth, distorted faces

turned into god-only-knows-what devils--

He runs a few steps more

and the blood spouts out his neck,

a fountain, greasy

in the sun’s rays.

And I will never tell her that

these bones have not lasted out:

she can make mincemeat of me first.

Ah, Mother! Mother!

Why doesn’t she stop worrying?