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It's Shaped Like A Fork This house is a mess. Full of solid notions that keep turning into objects: this simple sadness that's shaped like a fork and the vague fear that crusts these dishes. I'm vacuuming over this grass-like pain. Emptying pockets for the wash: such a burden: not just wrappers but keys and mints, those sticky and sorrow-coated stones. And this larger grief that always needs to be folded. All day I've been chewing on my own acrid gloom, trying to put away the things you keep carrying home from work: the possessions of children and women and drunks, stolen or cheated, the tasteless unhappiness of others into jars labeled: Heartbreak, Injustice, Just-Plain-Bad-Fucking-Luck. ...

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