December 3, 2014 § 3 Comments

Precision, the right way.

A slip and it’s ruined.

Why can’t they see?

Whistling water, only for the warming, never for the steeping.

Line them up. Kettle, pot, cup.

Each thing to its function born.

An ordered life.

In equilibrial ruin.

Rightly made.

Never conceived.


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§ 3 Responses to Order

  • DIRNDL SKIRT says:

    You poetry seems to be a new turn for you, and just as any creative effort should be: morphing, changing, because you/we don’t sit still either.
    “only for the warming, never for the steeping.” This intrigues me. To me it refers to a short attention span. Actually, I find most poetry enigmatic. Never sure I “get” it. But I am happy to see you exploring.

  • oxherder says:

    Interesting. I am confused, but also interested. So, do you feel precision is a form of equilibrium? Or vise verse? or niether? OR am i missing your point entirely? haha!!

  • Hariod Brawn says:

    How to remove myself from the process of my making tea. [I am unsure as to whether to place a question mark here]

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