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Need Food

Ken Rumble

A snake eating another eating a snake,
dried petals around the shoelaces:
there is nothing to fear,
the great, grey expanse of it;
or is it really nothing:  the fear of the total loss
of interior decorating.  The fear of a dream
in a dream; the fear of dropping a hammer from great heights.
When will we know, oh when?
The green truck rides the edge gravel –
dirt clods among the grass, stakes by the trees,
the builder’s moustache needs a trim:
this way realism knows where it stands,
an ancient yamaguchi with springs.
The saleswoman loved mock orange,
now it’s crepe myrtle –
the way her boss stands behind her, the news
is never good.  Hang roses from the ceiling
to draw the eye upward: something is there at times,
something is here/in the grass

Ken Rumble

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