Posted in: metaphor, poem

Prone to loss

We let it fall

slithery between our fingers

down the body out into the drain

the icicle from the handlebar gone

before it burns permanently into the palm

tightly squeeze the last

snippet of honeydew melon

left too long

let go of the cast iron pot

hotter than expected

peeled tomatoes

against green vinyl floor

we let go of the hand

when there’s nothing else left to do

let go of the overwhelming

and then we end up that much smaller



dansk version

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