you are the one,
small,
right thing
in the middle of rage.
bone marrow bubbling
in a deep stock pot
pen scritch on notebook paper
Caravaggio's shadows
between note rest
The song came on
inspiring the man
to forge the fork
comes sliding out
outside your mouth
without
the bit of beef
which left a
tender
kiss
of grease
upon your juicy
upper lip. puh.
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