Marsupial We have nothing in common. We are not alike. He laughs, each tombstone tooth a city: high rise and ebony: spectacular towers: a hundred Londons in his jaws, he licks his lips. What have we in common? He will spit, and spin, and shed nuts and growths, pick roots with egregious knuckles. He runs up a tree, and spreads his plumed tail. There is no artfulness in him. Or, it is unrecognizable, because there is none in me. I return, to my mechanical house: prefabricated. I try not to spit, spin, nor shed nuts with dull fingers. I will not run up stairs, let alone a tree. Dust accumulates, horses pass: tethered to their riders, their mouths alight with bits. A firework sputters. He will smile with visionary teeth, remind me of London or New York; make a branch art, with a quick brutal ceremony; I stay at home. I am no visionary. We have, maybe, something in common. Maybe. Disease will kill him, and I too would die: the earth would lay me out beside his body. We live, and think, and perceive the pupil of an eye, or the blackness of a city. We spurn the sky because we are in league with gravity. A branch will carry us up (if you learn the art) and in the scattered glare of cars: and the humanoid trees put up their arms, and a thousand rabbits Cameron, Age 16, Wokingham

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