today being one of those days
when you finger the rosary beads and they flick off the string
like height-drunkened baby birds,
shooting accross the kitchen and onto the tiles
with laborious little click, click, clicks
when the edge of your scarf boils with the syrup,
congesting the room with the smell of molten wool
today being one of those days
when, ten years tardy,
the whole world shrivels in your grasp
and weeps
you fold your white hands like a pair
of small linen napkins and stare straight ahead of you
without so much as an "oh."
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