I once wrote a poem of a fish
gutted on some dock,
rainbows, naturally, glinting off scales;
the odd beauty of its death.
Still you, I can barely
touch with the pen.
Every attempt delivers
the most peculiar picture;
a tiny slip of a girl perched
over a churn, her ladle shaken,
and cream, free of it’s skin,
spilling, pouring,
over her feet.
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