I’m beginning to feel my own delicious smallness,
the kind I used to think about
when looking at cracks in the sidewalk
or beckoning holes at the base of brick walls.
The kind of minuteness that slips
through any prison bars.
Are cocoons made to rise like yeasted bread?
Are bellies formed of the space
between Mars and Jupiter?
I want tiny finger pads for scampering
up stucco walls.
These short arms have
never hugged a cactus, but see
that saguaro over there?
I really want to try.

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