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Ache: a thimbleful

Black Johannes thinks every tiny
a fetish—Tell me how that makes them
wrong.
In aisle 4
produce offers wax
and cheerless pushes against
horror, abutting it. In hardware
rows of drawers teem
with machine tinies. Here a twist.
There, what and puncture. Screws,
squirrels, buried nails. A hopeful feel
that things could still be welded
together or caged—ignoring rot
or given a year, or sawdust.
Is dry, operatic room-sized death
better death?
Me—mine is
green eyes shot
out a shrunken fist
of potato. O my head, my
head. My moan flower.

 

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