Somewhere, a room falls into sterility.
We sit there, blank faces surgical
tools minus scrub and garb.
Who will make the first cut? Who can?
Here no-one is the most qualified.
And so, we wander without walking.
I catch the butterfly, wing-eyes fluttering
open and shut cases. You check
your chapbook for ever-creasing lines.
We bury ourselves in silences,
ships in relentless storm,
fold into endless fold. Therein
lies the horror of life, perpetual:
hunter and the trap, fruit and the tree.
Mother’s carrying another child –
and so is everyone else.

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