(10 Jan 2008, 20:40)
She stirred in the bowl
a number of thoughts
- todo's, washing, deadlines, dates -
with the close-ups of springs.
The close-ups of springs did come from
a bygone March, it was blurred sights
of bedsheets and skin, stretched on bones.
While the bowl got sticky, and the ladle warm,
she mixed plastic instants
with a number of words
- her mother was asking, the phone was beeping-
The phone was beeping as a call to live
dismissed, yet there, wouldn't you know now
How to mix it too,
the close-ups of springs
and the care of thoughts
not finding no more
a place to grow?
As they modestly receed
the cream gets thick
the taste gets sweet,
you're free.
Halvhari
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