The table is cold,
the food acts like
illuminated coils
in open refrigerators
freezing over the landscape,
peaks and valleys
dwarfed by slow brawling glaciers,
moving away
towards chilled bodies
lying still under peach trees
barren and unrecognizable,
sketching letters across the ground
that you scuff and distort with your boots,
a message of apathy,
like a cashier pulling heavy items
and black bars over
steady red light,
dead empty inside and moved by hidden
impulses electric and man-made,
a question smeared across
unmoving lips,
where does the future end
and the past begin,
today we asked.
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