Runcible Spoon

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He Chooses His Way


What interests me

so much more than

those pages of scripture

foxed with turning

is his choosing of a

blue gown over a white;

his weighing of two stones

in either hand, the one

mottled like a perfect moon,

the other pale and blind

as a sleeper’s face;

his standing by an open window

speculating the limitless sea

as a merciful place to

rest his head against

a turning back towards

a roiling world whose tide

is in the flood.