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Poem-a-Day
 
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Supper

Supper

 

On the walls of your house
there were hung

antique tools
of woodcutting and agriculture.

 

Where is the wheat 

the scythe reaped now?
I asked. Where the pine
the crosscut saw cut down?

 

Vanished, you said,
into other forms,
as well they should have.

Such as? Such as

 

the bread on the table,
or the table under the bread.

But all I see, I said,
is the scythe and the saw.

 

You're in the wrong
room, you said.
And we sat down at the table
and broke the bread.

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