Fate is read in the routes
of the snails that methodically
spell their own names in the park.
and shiver off of white birch
Alongside an old church,
pigeons storm a sliver
of stale bread that once was communion,
and the sounds of taxis and Ubers buzz
by the parks as the partitioned
paths of bees.
Nervously, an academic
and the pipes of the chemistry department
share a smoke, while the pipes’
snags the cool evening’s light.
before it swoops in
to cull a butterfly stuck
in the mud and buying time . . .
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