Earthquake

I watch the teacup silver spoons glide

gently across the peach mosaic

table, filled the criss-crossed patterns of white

clouds and a shrivelling wrap

pushed together into a nice

teacup revamp.

And as the spoons glibber in glitter wise

curfews, clasping and contradicting the map

of the floor, the pattern of it shattered into a slice

of a brilliant new city glistening with screams that did not lack

in tone and posture. I glanced at her wife,

the aloof prude, the petty nude slack,

masking her minute empty eyes

as they froze with a knack

of a symbolic routine wise.

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