Runcible Spoon

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Why So Frightened


of the dark, you who came

from there, and who,


most insomniac nights, dream

of nothing more perfect.


Death will be perfectly smooth,

perfectly round, the perfect


shade to mesmerize. It will be the om

you couldn’t master


without laughter, your inner monkey

in the highest cleft


of the tree, full-bellied

and still.


You will curl into it as against the ribs

of your sleeping dog,


the sweet wheat smell a blessing,

lulled by the steady


pom pom of its hidden