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The wait.

O hulking carapace,

tipped at the rear into sandy hole, you lay

this clutch of eggs, and stare up through birch-laced leaves--do you pray? For these eggs,

that, buried, must outlast predatious slithers, legs

soft to soft earth, the musk of life's earthbound edges? Shale eye, scaly head, crooked

around scute, maw jutted to heights you have forsook

for ages, being long forsaken, is this spooked deference a plea

for sun to heat these eggs, make hatchlings blackly see

a way through shell and pleats of earth, to smell the sea?
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Author:Swift, Doug
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Mar 1, 1993
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