Fork in the road, telling me whereto go,
Spoon half-three-thirds-full of
Knives soaked in lime juice.
Fork stuck in my teeth, hollow
Spoon caked with Sherlock’s Opium—
Knives with Arabs swimming in spotlights.
Fork dreaming of time,
Spoon, lying home, next on my lover—
Knives threaten my sleep.
Fork, silver, tarnished like
Spoon curvatures and invisible marks of
Knives against my wood laminated door.
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