The Pour

and if I can do this
on a cool morning
what would I do if
my whole time
were thus free?

I would produce
a mountain of paper
all wordy and
profligate that
spread itself so much it would

shove me out the door -
a cool Sunday morning of
stasis and pour
stasis and pour
repetitive gift recycled

in my hand - the jug
of God emptied and
refilled from his inexhaustible
hoard that all I do is
tip, spill, and there they are

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