Runcible Spoon

poetry and prose webzine

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An icy breeze stipples the face of the water

where the toad lies. As days pass, spawn

strung like rosary beads, glimmers

under the new moon.


His ancient copper eye gazes down

a black hole into another universe

where nebulas, galaxies, star systems,

thrum to his call.


And on the seventh day,

He rests.