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A Poem about a Homunculus


Drama boy, there is no need to die.

Rather, you may come to this small,

paint-spattered artist's table

in this small park,

and with your sharp knife

cut open the flesh under which

you keep that little box.

Take it out and review the contents,

which are you,

barely recognizable,

squinting in the light,

your homunculus.

He will be fine.