Breadcrumb #368


I help myself to you
in the morning
in my mind

Mimic the downward slope of
your throat, the pads of
your fingers
your breath

I cannot remember
your words, only the ones
I’ve repeated so often
they come back in
my own voice

Round like from the end of
an empty toilet paper tube
held up to
my mouth, then up to
my eye, slicing life into a circle

I like it like that
A clean picture
Smooth edges
Cardboard cutting crisp
into the soft skin around
my eye

I can feel the boundaries
thrown, then
four inches out, like
a shadow puppet to the wall

I can turn my head and
redraw the frame, sand the corners
from a fresh picture and never see
the shavings fall.

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