Thursday, March 16, 2017

The cutting world

From my pocket
     I produce the earth.

On the counter before me,
     set the blender to pulse.

Of the earth,
     I flip through its many pages.
   
Along the perforated lines,
     it tears.

Sheet by sheet
     many things, hours, time,
     gently placed,
     situated.

A cup of water or one and one half
     suggests my phone.

I drown the earth,
     first by faucet,
     then by cup.

The blender cuts the fuse,
     but it's too late.

By the darkness I pour,
     for each of us,
     deserving,
     a glass.

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