and even in the trap
there is
something about leaving a trail
of smoke
finally something more
inconsistent than my
trail of thoughts
It makes me sore to pull
out beauty from the oven
to bake my hands until they
are soft
and full of
disaster
I can't believe I dropped that
ceramic hand made pot
I'd been carrying,
onto the concrete city streets
it broke into seven pieces
and I almost fell apart myself
until I realized it meant I had one less
thing to carry
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