Poem in Which I Prepare the Passata 24 hours in Advance

The spoon does lazy circuits, causing disaster.
Sculls the pot, entry attended by immediate collapse.

The red reaches new depths. It’s character building to fail
against the shore of yourself, to be so constantly wrecked.

Time can be fished from or lost between the finest of cracks.
Night congeals, covers evenly the back of a day (doesn’t drip).

Emily Hasler

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