things fall apart in
our lives,
as if shaken by an earthly quake.
not by a fault
or stride,
there is nothing to point to, no one
to blame - not the wind
or the size of my kitchen.
no one with a nose or an ankle
has ever uttered a wish to end.
one smile after another,
splinttering into a beautiful circle,
holding this emptiness,
ask the man with 2 eyes,
how do you turn a bowl of blossoms
into a bowl of gruel?
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