you passed a lit candle to eat
so I'd smile like a carved pumpkin
if it came we should dance
as post-modernists dance
implied in a dream in the dream of another
time again and again
Two strangers in the kitchen
read a book without a spine
and cupboards wept paint, cried victory
and the slaughter turned to wine
And the field of crows said nothing worth noting
No caws about their meaning
or songs about my ending
just beaks through the blanket
in my dream of the soil.
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