166. not all blazing breastplate isn’t

tamarin touches, electric, the branches
of canopy, covered, an apparatus,
signals that sweep from tree to tree,
a taste or a touch, radiating reads:

cadymus clap (stop) is stuck, almost strapped,
(stop) caught in the trap of a large woody plant,
(stop) please notify (pause) anyone, i
can’t really cause i’m too small to try

(period) plus, the conflict interest,
i’ve tasted his soul so now i’m infect-
ed (pause) (period) (full stop)
and at that moment tamarin dropped

took root and blossomed, irises blue,
tamarin trapped (its eyes were still huge) — 
the message, at least, was not lost complete
(the morse code, although, might well have been greek)

a toss-up, a tapir, a room full of rats,
a porcupine, pulling, a stripy wild-cat — 
didn’t reply, but passed on the cry
until the entire rainforest chimed

then, at the last, the message advanced
to a fine tree, inside of it had
another stuck sloth (sharp somebody sad),
bleeding (a little) raspberry jam

sharp someone sad had ages been trapped
bleeding and blooming tamarins that
peopled the plain around it that lay
with orchids and olives, balsam and bay

then were the moose, mighty, mistook,
millimeters high, with horns, and a hook,
sloshing around (squirming, they’re worms)
suddenly turn into mosses and ferns

the corridor creeped, the sloths and their trees,
steadily, surely, supplied by the heap — 
animals all, birds, bugs, and bees,
curious, called, and then en-sweetened

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.