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 We can never befriend spoons
We gaze at them tenderly, slurping soup
We dress in bright clothes, but they strip themselves
Pouring away delicacies plundered from the world
A spoon prefers its socket empty doesn't want soup to give it an
Doesn't want to read the menu's epitaphs
Sometimes, I think I hear a spoon describe its long-lost village--
The river blackened by a mine that used to echo with woodpeckers
No matter how many spoons we buy, we can't befriend them
A spoon prefers its socket empty, doesn't want to meet our eyes
It wants to be naked, it won't pluck a single blade of grass
It only uses its silvery voice to confide in a bowl
I don't remember how many spoons I've bought
I study the language of this blind poet's socket
Eating soup before a play, I try to make my slurping sing
The roar of the spoon's interior
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Author:Huang Fan
Publication:Chicago Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Jun 22, 2019
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