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The sloth

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slung low sloth
hung below some humid air,
green furled branches slow unraveled,
well lubricated, the weight they bear, made fiction,
so long untraveled, in languid friction,
that fluid seems far off inertial ice, dim Arctic glow,
northward where no sloth can know--
the very pause that preserves him here in heat
there draws tight and cold upon fur and feat

his high hazy gripping slow-grown limbs-
'round tree on curling claws, lazy, long,
clings but the warm unworried sloth,
and distant dreams of lives storm bold, both fast and cold,
who must hurry to be free.
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