With Killer
pickles hiding
behind every shadow, my heart
burns for a spear. To
slice
or not to slice? Such
a question
is too loaded for a single piece. The buns
in front of me are average
at best, sedentary, stuck in stale postures
of enticement. Open sesame! I chant
in my mind. Nothing
happens. I toss a
dash of salt over
my shoulder for luck before I move
on.
(https://annapurnamagazine.com/about-2/)
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