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I spend all afternoon looking at pictures of heirloom vegetables in a big, expensive book

What does it matter? Who owns what
the names of books, the names
of tomatoes, what I’ve done
with my body today
Nothing, nothing

Sometimes, a bowl of fruit on the table reveals a hole you’ve been ignoring for years

A dry wind moves the curtain
I arrange the objects on the table just so

You think I was put on earth to write poems like this?

I was put on earth to look at other people’s photos


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