Something calls oblivion
Where milk glass is heading
It won’t return
like icicles every year
White cherubs for stems
You notice people buy it
not because they want it
but to preserve it
Fruit that aspires to be alabaster
What words give
What words take away
Not beauty but what it’s cut out of
So jaggedy
as you out of me
You note more circles every year
Less rectangles
It must be a national diet of shapes
Men lose their beards and women find them
Food can be a sexual proxy adventure
The bears in the backyard
Seem more like your dead parents
every year
You lock the door earlier
You start to swoon into the curtains
And watch the bears that way
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