Rubble of the crystal stair

I am in a pot. Not really,
but too long I’ve simmered
with a beach in my head,
all its pretty eyeballs screwing
me and mine, too long I’ve
washed the floors I don’t tread on
without crawling from Eden,
too long been a curdle in the jug.
So my arms wash the floors
lonesomely, five feet away from me,
dragging and their eyes pout
every time they reach out and meet
nothing. Not my shoulders, not my feet.

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~ by Jeremy on June 27, 2009.

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