I said, ‘Impossible!’
Hearing the grandfather clock clapped.
‘Right, right,’ the house gecko said.
The milk turned silently sour,
the rice cooker lewdly hooted.
Words are plenty plenty
orphans: making riots inside my head.
Made of thin, brittle paper memories.
‘We will play, we will play,’
they said.
Now they are obliviously playing.
Come, grab this fresh pound
of poem.
Even if it’s impossible an order.
Even if it has wasted my day.
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