Saturday, 14 April 2012

12: Tangled

Our kitchen walls jungled
with spaghetti, tangled
like hessian sacks or
worms, maybe. The stove
top’s black quicksand
beckons—here’s where
wayward beans tread to
sink. Wayward. Avacodoes
skip the ripening and turn
straight to brown like
plans souring before we’ve
leapt in the yacht. Skip the
yacht, there’s quantum holes
in the hull. She says
everything is just so much
tangled spaghetti; she
says she’s trying.
The wall? I say.
I’m trying, she says and
she throws another strand.
I’m waiting to see
what will stick.

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