like glass slivers scattered on the rug
like blood splattered on our wall
like a prize without a winner
like an ecstatic sinner
like a stranger’s slow gait
like her causal laughter
like the sun at night
like a fellow neophyte
like an empty pickle jar
like a hand crushed in a machine
like the opening of a door
like the smell of an unread book
like a poem
like a moment after your dying thought
(July 2012)
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