George Northrup

After his stroke,
every meal smelled like asparagus.
His thoughts flowed as briskly as ever,
but when he put them to voice
they sounded like wet crash obsidian
corrugated time trap
ramshackle orangutan…

In this new equilibrium
everything listed to starboard.
He could never be entirely sure
if he was dreaming
or the floor was about to tip over.
 
 
 
 
 

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