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A Poem

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


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