By Joyelle Mcsweeney
Leaf-keep, un-sibyl; if the soul
Has the weight of a swallow, what less
Has the weight of a sip? You equal
This riddle, unposed in your dish
As a hand at rest in a lap. Held to,
You hold back what can’t be
Prevented, what’s no more palatable
For that: the unfine; formerly, our future.
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