Poem: "A Position of Defeat 8"


opening a crack of the eyeball to the sun
i am divided from the objects lit
even the violent corpse of this misfit
that i now raise as if it weighs a ton

i don’t know if it dies during the night
i do know when I wake that it is dead
the toaster oven revives the pita bread
sliced by an oversized knife into bites

the coffee grinder is now nearly unmanned
next week it will dispense with human quirk
woven from sweat that will not wear its work
the cotton shirt eviscerates my hands


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