Air (공기)

By | 22 May 2011

Had I but the right cutlery, I could cut it
but in this age of convenience and terror I
am not to be trusted. I’ve a piece of plastic
I must sharpen with my mind, that presently
tears, no wipes, the hang-dog expression
from the face of our single serve of lasagne.
This is not the end or rather the end as I’d
imagined it, this monochromatic restaurant
with its listless salads and half arsed pasta
bakes, its muzak and families dull as tines
on my fork. Craft taxi and dock, no this is
not the end, it is ends – and interminably so.
This poem wants to do so much, the cutlery
apposite: I am trying to lift love, I am trying.

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