Runcible Spoon

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I nod in company, I wake at night

 

Nothing fancy place,

yesterday.

Canteen-

 

where

the breath

is short

& then

long, a raw process I never knew respiration to be,

an ore of air, & things meant to stack,

stack-

yellow plates. brown chairs

& then one teacup-

someone couldn’t finish it. someone couldn’t take it away,

that’s what lingering things do,

retain a meaning heavier than even whales in their natural

habitat. the viscous joy of

catharsis

dust-stealing

explosion at 10.

 

The way they count at space launches

negatively

as if orbits are a planetary choice, in light

the cup tapestries a conversation around it-

blue whales in brown chairs

negotiating

their share of sea.

zero

minus one. minus two.

10, & then

tomorrow.