Its quotidian concerns. Its hereness.
The coffee mug sits on the table.
It is only a coffee mug.
The sugary dregs at the bottom of the cup aren’t a metaphor.
I am going to drink them.
Its plain clothes. Its modesty.
Prose is the quiet workhorse.
Always the first to raise its hand, the first to volunteer.
The first one to the office in the morning,
The last one to leave.
Its wide open spaces. Its ranginess.
And this, and this, and this…. and this other thing too.
No need to distill or concentrate.
We aren’t making jam here.
More will always be more.
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