ace of cups poem

cups01

One is more stable than two.

With two there is a swirl of smoke,

a scattering of hand tools,

a Swiss file so fine it will snap.

Pass me the D-string, you say.

There, that packet with the black and gold lady.

 

Drops scatter,

the bird plunging straight down.

We drink bourbon with mint leaves.

We listen to the Dead,ย and I cannot

discern a single one of the words you love.

 

This beak-firstย idea

runs my cup over, or at least

keeps filling and filling it.

 

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