everything is metaphor

I wade the time by the slow of
the cold milk soaking up the grains,
and count simple strokes of sound,
the little pips of air escaping
and the soup eventually devoured—

o but every grain was unique,
tasted, and drank his fill too,
and some were large and some not quite,
some light and dark and some most bright—
but what’s eating at you ever and
from where do you get your milk?

and radiator clanking and bubblings!
while I drift away to sleep.., as soon
as I am made as alone as can be,
as soon as the reality can be accepted,
everything is metaphor, symbol, and figured speech—

the boiling water becomes the heart
and the piping steel, the silent, cold cage:
unless the room is safe and warm and bright
to sleep: dream, wish, hope, fear and love
and never alone when there are pens
lifted having written and readers reading

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