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, wait. 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 the time. The line. Horizon like a blue sigh.

Why, but to fill the sink. Invisible ink. Reached in too deep to purposely 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. Plain enough for salted thoughts. 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 midnight tiles 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. Going to bed is just giving up. Given up. Shut up, bound with the sounds of and, and, and. And understands…that breaking another day. She sang


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