Monday, August 8, 2016

CACHE

Closed-up
nice

and neat

and tight like
a fist,

a pursed
exotic

flower, perpetually
bent

toward
ideal morning—

silent,

you're so
proud.

Alone,

you're so
sharp.

Still,

you keep
hid.

Palm
of the hand—safe.

Bulb
of tomorrow—

sacred. Such
beauty

and utility
in

you, kid,
dovetail

perfectly—
so as to

completely

cancel
each other out.

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