By Karl Zuehlke
I don’t like the words on days I am sediment.
Days on the couch. Endless reruns. A cup never empty.
Those flowers deserve to be in a vase. They belong there.
As pink is to pinky. Casual is to casualty. As harp is to harpoon.
You are circling me. I let you. You let me circle you.
Sunrise over water. Sunset over water. The sun didn’t move at all.
I fashion songs out of circles so I can X them out.
Crease me down my perforations. Pull me until I am loose-leaf.
I say everything was laid out in pairs, and I mean a table for two.
Ice-water strings the pitcher to the cups on the table.
My spine is a string of bells your hand moves across.
You order a garden salad. I order the oysters and find a pearl.
