If sleep evades me, then I’ll stay awake

and dream of the utensils I once used

to pick and poke the peaks and pikes I’d make

out of flush air to feed my blood suffused:

Little teaspoons you could wash with a wish,

and two-pronged forks that you gashed your gums with,

and knives that you clanged against the red fish

whose eye pulsed, quickened with gelatin pith:

I must have been ten when I first did dance

with the crumbs on my table, made of gloss

and the fibrous shavings of blue romance,

cut from the cork to connect to the cross:

I never switched it right after cutting

the yucca: Sinister hands. NO DOUBTING.

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