Wednesday, May 06, 2009





Something happened

to the pot on the stove.

It started to sing,

and then the lid

lifted itself up in the air.

He listened to the music

of the small pot,

to the serenades of cars outside,

to the rhythms of his breath

beneath his shirt.

It was a day

when hillsides of thoughts

had blossomed in his mind,

and now this pot

that was nobody’s

and knew nothing

was singing to him

and he was listening. 

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