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  • Donut Shop
  • David Hernandez

The oversized pink donut fashioned on the roof reminds me of the hole in the ozone dilating above Antarctica, above the clueless penguins wobbling over blue ice. Gets me thinking about rings and holes in general, a life preserver tossed from a yacht into the frothing waters where someone's head once bobbed. About inner tubes and nooses. About halos, glowing like white neon over the heads of angels swarming around a benevolent being. Benevolent and powerless or else another day for the man consumed by waves to sip a martini on deck. Or else merciful hands to stitch closed the ozone's wound. Ergo, God's a hole in the sky, big as the O in Oblivion. To get from I don't believe to I believe one must jump through many hoops garlanded with flames. Or one hoop, unlit and inches off the ground. I don't know. My reasoning has more holes than a colander as I wobble across the iceberg of life's meaning, clueless as the next guy who happens to be stepping out of the donut shop carrying a dozen. Wish I had one. Glazed or chocolate. One that dusts my lips and powders the floor like snow shaken off a crow's wings.

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