I wait
for the bell to toll, the wind to
shift, the sky to pull back the curd
of clouds. Let the milk of life steam,
and then settle back down to cool in the
saucer of knowledge. You could, I suppose,
make the cooling faster, by pressing your lips
and pushing the used air in your lungs
through these anxious lips. You could, as with
everything in life, hasten the boiling process by

cranking the heat up, sending flames to sear the sky, or choose
to sit back in your hard wooden chair, which sits
a little too upright in the kitchen, and wait
for the ripples of inevitability to close in.



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