Perhaps It's Time

You’re a crock pot full of thick forgotten roots --

a secret soup, gray meat and gristle, shreds long bled

of savor, taste: slowly cooked to waste and mush,

in which what once had been the flavor and the rush

of life is now the faintest tainted memory. Too much

has fallen inward to the middle of the mass. Somebody’s

asked what passed – what made it fall. Something

gentle in the call. Perhaps it’s time to say it all.











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