well mannered and homogeneous,
Like the legs of a kitchen-set
Like the grain in a polished stone;
Feeling as if the warm- vessels
were splintered by clean smiles,
Nothing more harmful than the reminder
we’re but a slapped wrist, or a vague smell.
Christ- the marrow aches for a reflection,
perhaps a face that tells the worth
in exhaustion and nightmare,
or, maybe, a sweetened anesthetic,
that takes us seriously
during our everyday somniloquy.
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