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are the size of
fingers, proportioned like men
running up the Smokies and down Shenandoah’s wide plain,
living their tachycardial lives as fast as they can
plucking and frailing and slurring on strings
until their heads turn paprika and sumac red.
It’s a good life, better than guitar,
faster and fancier than mandolin.
Each of them parses a song into sounds
the way a lake can become raindrops again.
Afterwards: a cold bottle to hold, a fly
to brush away, a woman’s beautiful butt
passing by to imagine repeating rhythm on.
Ten restless guys race to fill her ears or her pants
scrambling to give pleasure.
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