One of the first articles I read this morning was on the mourning habits of the marmoset. This chunk leapt out at me:
…several months after her death, the male disappeared from the marmoset group, never to be seen again.
And gave chase
Looping over and…
getting tangled-up,
in everything.
Like how every pop and shush
of steam from the coffee maker
is nestled in woven loops of
never to be heard of again
Maybe that’s why I never made that second cup.
I mean, fuck—out pops a clown:
if all I get out of it is grief,
why should I even turn you on,
oh ye coffee pot o’ doom!
That was close wasn’t it.
You can always count on a clown,
though, ride in last minute,
keep you alive another day.