Make it new,
day-old bread cut for dressing.
Even the new is stale.
There's nothing new
about the taste of a kiss,
the disapproval vibrating
in your throat.
Do birds disapprove?
Is that why they sing?
No?
Then fuck you.
Olive oil moistens, heals
while the stale bread burns.
I don't have time to read
or annotate or open windows
or meditate on traffic.
Make it new, my ass.
There's enough symmetry
for all of us.
We can match the cadence
of twins, vocal chords locked
like feathers, like prongs.
What's the matter with old?
Dinner's ready, and you're busy
starving.
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