Whatever lies next to

is pulled into the narrative:

you are standing in front

of a machine in the market square

as spears of asparagus are threaded

through to pull off their tough

exteriors. A wooden-backed chair

that must have been part of a set

rests on the sidewalk, so the late

afternoon sun can burnish its panels

carved with florets. You think

only of how both make you want to cry.

And it is also something to behold

all the weather vanes on village roofs

churning like many parts of a wheel

before a gale blows in from the sea

and you try to remember

how many seconds of quiet

there were just before the maw

opened and the bodies were

fed to it, one by one.

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