Published online with Rue Scribe, 2020

There is something wholly immutable
in these simple auguries
I will tell you-

1.Walking round the same two aisles
though the breads are stagnant patches,
same rye, indelible wheat, silent buttermilk,
until my head floats above my body
all proofs and prices meaningless.

2.Orbitting steady as planetary fiction
from fridge to stove, from fridge to stove,
to find the gutted onion to fry
to grab another twin-bellied egg
to toss into the cheap, old skillet without care.

3.Cradling a grieving broth in a simple spoon
as it dances under heavy breathing,
readying itself bravely for the mouth.

They are so unhappily every-day-ish
and unremarkably colored browns and yellow-browns.
Though they make smiling secrets on the tongue,
though they make sleep and sex and laughter
and sorrow and sweat and sauntering too.

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