The steady whir of a gentle mind
washing machine hums on by.
the yellow discern of spaced out Russian roulette,
shape, wink, color on
I'll have none of that, said the woman of the rythymic pats,
In and out to the adage rowboat station, dough on a white countertop of framed time.
Kneading, kneading, well into the night, until the time within becomes less saturated,
Speed is all gone and we'll never find out what and where is the point of projecting
steadiness makes tread on the washing speed once more,
wear and whir
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