without a machete.
Apricot pile flames waist-high underfoot.
The wool looks like silk. With the
tips of your fingers
you press burnished strands
lightly away.
The blue sun of the wall blazes.
See this, see that.
Incense, aromatic oil, cumin, cayenne--
you sway through this drunken
swirl too
as if held on string
leading two plumbers
to the basement,
down the bald steps
to a different stage-set
that place of metal and dust
rammed under your nest
of home
extracting them
Two plumbers cut a grey swathe
through the blazing forest of your house.
They carry dazzling
tabernacles.
In the first a ciborium.
In the other it is not
a tabernacle
but a blue plastic drum
in this other
the day's catch
thrashing
luscious with sea water.
You don't discern.
You don't differentiate
between the plumber with the tabernacle
and the plumber with the bright blue drum.
Someone else is writing this poem.
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