The truth is, I speared the pond with the rubber ram of my boot. The pane, saying solid but not staying so. Roots glide across the ground on wooden stomachs. They try to twine with my fingers, but I plant my hands in my lap. When I went to your house, I fell in love with the way you made scrambled eggs. You tap the fork against the shell like you’re playing dolls: a neighbor with tined thistle in her hat, a rap at the door. I yawned over your shoulder, never tired of this. As you read these words, you have the brightness so heightened, you can’t see your face in the screen anymore. I can’t write any lines about your lover. He must be nice. I apologize: I wore your house keys as a necklace, like ivory tusks tugged from the rooms’ elephant. ✱✱✱
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