These days I like to sit patiently in front of objects.
Pink bowl, a piece of fruit, coral, paper clip.
If I sit quiet enough, time enough, cup
my attention to drink each matter enough
nothing happens. The bowl is not a symbol.
I can watch the skin, bruise, sickly, blacken.
All is a commonplace. A startle is a scandal.
The coral, dead, lacks sentiment. The clip, practical.
I used to like to sit in front of you, patient
with affliction. I drank from it your company.
Nothing was actually happening. How happy we were.
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