Sunday, June 7, 2020

Planed Banner of Papyrus Napkin

A dog might live in the world.
You don’t. Your world lives in you,

Moving like the linen tugged
Repeatedly through a ring

Carved from wood or ivory,
Banged out of a bit of gold,

A bit of tin, or melted
Plastic snapped free from a mold.

Your world is shoved through the gap
Around which your thoughts circle,

And you’re a decoration
That remains between the meals.

Your world was fabricated,
Printed, stained, and laundered clean,

Singular experience
But sequentially plural.

Ok, that’s enough conceit.
You’re a custom, convention,

A circular argument
Tossed in a restaurant drawer.

At best you set the table
For goddesses and heroes

Whose dogs are sniffing their knees,
Hoping for something to fall,

Never knowing, never will,
Never needing to know that

What’s unfolded in those laps
Was held within your zero.

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