Remnants of twisted pine

Cling to sticky fingers like ash

Stains on white t-shirts.

Kiss the plant with flames and

Swallow its smoky soul!

Maybe your skin will singe

And you’ll both simmer,

But you can’t water cacti

With cooking wine

And expect flowers to flourish.

I dreamt I was a street sweeper;

I didn’t like it that much.

A trashcan tumbled down

A flight of concrete steps And told me, “I’m the bin,

But you’re the waste.”

I was late to work,

Going top speed,


Passing empty receptacles

And barrels of guck.

I’m a streetsweeper,

No, a bartender,

No, I don’t have a job,

I’m a quarter spinning

On a cloth tabletop,

And somehow I never topple.

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