This is for Brooklyn Copeland in Minnesota and all the Thylacines we lost in the fires of 1906. It wasn't fit for man or beast. The smell of burning rubber on Australia's loneliest highways filled my nostrils, and it hit me: I Am the Last Marsupial Wolf. So I wrote this poem. It's been many years since I was in Australia, but I'll never forget what I never saw.
Minnesota's a beautiful place.
I know, but I have to get rustic all the way in California.
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