It is not polite to mention blood at
The dinner table--
Not because it disagrees with our conditions of eating;
But,
In the fixity of our pursuits we
Too
Are the sweetness to a circling venture--
What circles stops at the table
And rests
Unable to speak--
That guffing breath caught up in its throat,
As though who we are could so easily and
Handily be mistaken
For what we taste like, no longer fixed to
Outrun
Says it all.
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