Sort of Day 11

They have leapt, and the pot is melting;
they run-on till there’s a tick in the talk.
Dash the salt, win the dash,
something sweet is stuck in the grass.

Don’t watch for beetles in the basement,
their cacophony would blind you;
less than bubbles in the tension,
less than seconds of the earth.


A parallel poem to the one before, also mostly nonsense, also fun to write.

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