Awaiting midnight on
the cusp of Thursday
I hear the flow of water
rippled like a soft gargle
clearing it’s throat of faded crumpled
lists caught in the day’s
passing. I can’t imagine
how the flow goes on
in such dry air, where do
the heavy drops fall from—
where do they land? What time
will they wash over
the edge of twelve strikes
and produce a clean
new day with it’s own
throat song full of fresh lists
waiting to bring liquid melody to
another turning?
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