freckles

the moment

that you draw

a line around it

the strangulation begins i would

rather walk endlessly toward an

unobtainable horizon than accept

that dogma from that bowl on that

table

(the wood plank scarred stained

frozen in a state of perpetual

decomposition a cruel nod toward

the afterlife of trees she pours

the last cup from the carafe adding

sugar and milk)

there are infinite circles and infinite

lines and each a border capsulizing

how meaningless each actually is or

perhaps just an animation a cartoon

rendering the futility of zen the joke

told first by juno at a dinner party up

upon the hill not caring at all which

came first or which side of the road

it had been laid because it goes on

like this

for generation upon generation the

slip of time into gravity until the event

itself is lost to us and served up in

ovenproof glassware unreasonably

suited for a life in hell

(petals fall from wilted roses vase

showing a water mark of days past

and the cloudy concentration of the

life essence lost she inquires and

accepts the lie not as truth but as

the fact of it)

when you throw all of the wrappings

away all we have left is a sense of

wonder a desire to party with the first

person who looked at an artichoke and

said i intend to eat that yes i do

(she breaks character and turns

hot to the lens)

and just enough

nostalgia and sentiment

to kill us all