That one is crumpled like a scrap of paper
she thought she didn’t want,
but changed her mind, and salvaged,
smoothed out as well as she could.

His is small and bouncy,
no one can catch it–
it’s slippery, elusive–
a transparent glitter-filled superball.

That one is thin, lean, hard, strong,
a wing bone.
It moves swift, deliberate,
no time, no flesh, to waste.

This one:  an empty flower pot
stained with moss.
This one:  a formal garden
with no weeds, nothing out of place.

Here is one large and welcoming,
wide, soft, slow:  a sofa soul that holds
between the plushy cushions
secrets, like lint and scattered change.


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