Little yolk, fly-speck, web
unworked, detail without name,
unlatch yourself from me, go.
In your small submersible,
your thousands of cells have stopped 
beating.  I felt their tappings
like braille on a quaking bog: a faint print, 
then none.  Go, almost thing,
the sundews have opened
their sticky pink mitts to catch
your brothers, and soon
the cranberries will float red 
on the harvesting pond.
(This, too, will come to an end.)
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