The spent tea bag stapled at the top,
the icicles dripping on a Saturday afternoon
freed from any thought of what time it could be,
spread out like a soft cheese with hair
unwashed, snow with nowhere
to go, nothing we don’t have
it’s all right there
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I don’t know why ‘stapled at the top’ got to me but it did. I can’t imagine why.
Still life of a pear.