In The Kitchen

If she could sing, she’d be dangerous. Outrageousness is eked out in a little growl. But that’s because the music was on, paused. Paused it off. Paced to the contagious ticks of digital microwave reflection. Deflection to stick a fist full of foil in and watch it spark. Arc of the covenant to stand in. Hand on as one up, cautiously pawing the air. There where waves keep time. Keep the time. The line. Horizon like a blue sigh.

Why but to fill the sink. Invisible ink. Reached deep to purposely pull the plug. Pull the plug. But, that would be sad. And fingers snap on the up beat, continuously. Like a song. Gone down the drain. It’s just the pain. Just the pain that could be spelled out and traced in stardust with a thought. Brought and bought in single ep portions. Forks, spoonful distortions of a taste waste no mention. Mention anything.

Stings from a nightlight pretending to be the moon. Soon, it writes. Like the night. While she’s stubborn enough to walk around. She’s talking around. As if circles straighten out. Under the silverware, there’s manuals. And they don’t know. No, they don’t know. And bed is just giving up. Giving up. Shut up with the sounds, bounds of and, and, and. And understands that breaking another day, she sang

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