the loose sausage,
cream of mushroom and milk.
mash,
stir on open flame.
I am in the corner
on the floor
stroking Colby’s black mange;
looking out doors.
mid-morning breakfast
with beer is stark
quivering on the edge
of a cymbal crash.
I know this is not
the way.
not officially.
but mathematics
are only parallel
figures
and sums no longer
equal
crisp leaves that float
gingerly to slick blades.
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1 comment:
I think this is nice. The movement is well-measured and the lines are surprising, while all seeming to fit in the universe of the poem.
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