That Big Old House Has Roaches

She expedited her ventures by staying put
as a single particle may interfere with itself.

All the doctors threw their hands up,
unaccustomed to this quantum illogic.

The seasons then belonged to her, cinnamon
and gravy, drags from cigarettes a guest left,

she, pinching the snubbed butts like bugs.
Forefinger, thumb, carapace; she was chaste

as the wind and whatever was blown with it.
The insides went first, veins once knit

lost their opacity. Soon, visitors could see
through her, like a fine sheet of mica glass.

For several instants a day, she became two places
at once. But really, it was just a geometric trick.


This has absolutely nothing to do with the above poem, save the phrase "cinnamon and gravy." I like how it sounds.

Old prospector - will farrell


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