Plaster
They churn and tumble into themselves.
A table with elbows on its legs.
There’s something left of decaying orchids.
When they sway because of the living room.
That plaster, bloop.
Fresh and horrible.
Stepping outside like traveling to a place where you become a brick.
Swaying, puttering, and plastering.
They churn and tumble into bowling balls.
Levels of them.
I had a kaleidoscope that one time.
Set it down and maybe someone else bought it.
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