Soup

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On the edge of the table she places her hands.

Nails barbaric, polish weary.

In her fingers a cigarette

smoked down, close to the filter

and then

snuffed out in a glass.

“To what do I owe this visit,” she asks.

No voice answers.

And the wind blows the branches

of the Chinese elm against the southern facing window.

And the Burnese Mountain Dog barks

as the pot on the stove boils hard.

She gets up, turns off the flame

pours soup into two bowls and laughs.

“It comes down to the elemental things,” she says.

No complexity, no desire, just the sound of we two

first blowing to cool the soup

and then swallowing the first spoonfuls.

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