Thursday, April 3, 2008


You can no longer sing against the plate,
poor spoon, head in the corner
under a quilt of dust.

Maybe a baby dropped you
as a man lifted him, struggling, from his chair.
Maybe a man flung you
to free his hand for a woman’s hair.

Maybe a woman forgot you
as she sank into sleep: your shiny face
inadequate to bail the ocean of sorrows
from her leaky boat.

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