the potatoes boil

in #poetrylast year

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the transparency of yet another sip of coffee hangs over me.
"sober me up from the dream," i demand.
a helping hand with a palm in scortching sand is futile at best,
and the rest remains confidential.

jazz blues; i choose the melody divine,
with wine in the foreground, contrasting the whiskey thoughts,
complementing that which is but isn't.

the potatoes boil and the soil outside moistens.

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