You can
wear art,
smother skin
with caked thick paint.
It can be your
personal panoramic vista
with no eyes. Pretty
words that dangle
from eyebrows, burrow
like lice
until you can’t sleep.
But how much harder

to simply hold this, two-fingered, like a vase,
ready, at any time, to open your hand,
to point,
to become
what’s inside the container
that you drop.

About David

Prone to musing and to being prone. Father to two, writer, engineer.
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