That which I put into my pie glows like a glowing thing
inside my pie, a sparkler inside a bushel of apples
inside my pie, an uncontained fire contained in a tin
of canned pumpkin and sweet condensed milk
inside my pie. I like to put my head underneath
the water and hear it running,
the sound of drowning, the bulb glowing,
the ribbon of the light switch swinging, the swine.
Is it time? The timer seems always to think it’s time.
The children make merry with their board games.
The married ignite their paper hats.
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