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Guilty Yoke

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I once saw a man fold an omelet that wasn’t an egg,
from a block of cheese that wasn’t quiche or folded,
in a blanket of dust curling like lazy ghosts on a stove,
that wasn’t a stove but a shell of something noir,
revealing a seam of a crack in the box that wasn’t,
fondue, but an omen of a yoke.

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