A Poem

Cylindrical, their legs,
Pegged, spindly, jointed, red, footless,
As high as a two-story building they stand, crimson,
Visages of grotesque root vegetables,
Grave, undifferentiated faces,
Lawman's eyes, geometric noses,
They beat the ground like a drum with each step,
They carry rocks, I don't know where,
Their shadows pass along the walls of this room — and what a room,
Pale, sun-stained,
There are teacups,
Roses printed in faded detail on the fabric of furniture,
And there is your face — a perfect ellipse, a ninety-degree nose scarcely indented
From your forehead, your mottled, infant's skin in the undulant shadows of red towers,
The smell of tea I don't usually drink,
I've never questioned the crimson things,
The thought never nears me,
And I say this in the light that always seems an uncomfortable morning,
Though I already know your reply,
For I hold it too,
That some things are better left untouched,
A shadow passes us over.
The ground thunders lazily, as if it’s just woken up.

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