Enclave – a Descriptive Poem

I grasp the hard and smooth glass with ease,

something i have done many times before.

The axis of my wrist rotates

like an upside-down pendulum,

as if the hands on a clock are spinning backward

then thrust forward again and again.

I use the auspicious and respectful hand-

the companion to my four fingers holds

the cylinder.

I can see its cargo, crystallized

like tiny icicles which have been shattered

into the millions of fragments it truly holds.

Pieces that will make up my very being,

my nourishment.

The flavor of all Earth’s beings

cooked.

The metallic silver top

boasts passages just large enough

to allow the spices to cascade.

A slow and methodical spill,

intended-as if someone had

overturned an hourglass.


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