Floating on alphabets
in the tomato sea,
drippingly
convenient,
we are anchored
on the stain's tastiness,
its warmth.
Unhinged time
staggers
with failing sobriety;
bliss
glittering
inside the empty can.
Labelless space,
empty grooved aluminum,
where we swim or drown
in familiarity.
Microwave timers
open and close the portal,
collapsing
then and now,
crushed under foot
and recycled.
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