Poetry

Drowning on a Regular Basis

My body shifts in the sand

I cannot rise

for the slicing of bread

the elastic monotony of dough

the past is a different meat and potato pie

I cannot help you today

I cannot get you anything at all

there is a glass of water on the table

my face fits comfortably inside

I can almost see the horizon

suddenly there’s a demanding southerly

waves in a glass of water are dangerous

sometimes deadly

look! there is no spoon

sometimes I cry at the lack of a spoon.

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