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Time slobbered on the kitchen table like wet rice,
The almighty god drooped down the branches
Of dead trees and lengthened absurdity,
Time covered the duck’s death,
For it was a quarter to seven
And nothing seemed to stop,
Not the sand or ants or reflecting ocean of infinite
Reason and sanity,
Not the death of humanity and
Satan’s pure creation,
Or the silver frame of armor that
Protects routine and wrinkles,
That speeds and slows until
Hemoglobin goes numb,
Hands spin until their warped
Like hot sun on white plastic fences.
And when the death of Time creates a god
The sand will turn to ash and
Poets will turn grey,
White curtains turn black and the sea no longer