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The Slow Loris.

 It's almost motionless in the rigid twisted shape of half of
a dead tree
   in its cage and won't let go
  of any branch it clings to
  with less or more than one sure hand or doubly sure prehensile foot at
a time and even then it waits
  until it knows what nothing
  else on earth knows how
  to hold or think about or will ever understand before it moves again
so slowly you might think
  it's done ahead of time
  what you yourself have done
  almost as slowly while wishing to be still gripping the same branch in
the same place as when
  you hadn't yet begun
  behind wide open eyes
  behind a deep black mask (in a night when nothing moved) to dream of
running, running away from everything. 
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Author:Wagoner, David
Publication:Prairie Schooner
Article Type:Poem
Date:Mar 22, 2013
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