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Tinkering Mother

Sailing, lingering on cold glass waters.
Trains emerge from the surface of foamy tides.
Trains, carrying cargo full of pewter blossoms.
Fascinated by the eternal flowers of the sea, the train arrives.
The salty crumbling of the ocean has dried itself to the dregs. Ashore, my soul is drinking, is swallowing wheels. Wheels like embers turning to ash. I will bring a basket of these to my tinkering mother.
We are humming as we maximize this volume of spoons.
They burn orange,
burn blue.
And the knives slice the waves which brush the peeling
Panama Canal. Now it is broken. Now the curse is lifted.
Now we can breathe again.

13 Apr 18

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