Screens
Tiny
wire squares
Stretched
over frames
Or
encased in a plastic holder
To
strain out what is unwanted
To
leave the lumps or whole fruit behind
What
makes it through is smooth
Or
clear pure juice
That
can jell the golden notes of summer
Spread
on toast there’s nothing like it
Savored
on winter’s bleak bones
Electronic
screens preserve the dross
The
left behind thoughts of millions
Unsifted
hunks of soul
Stuck
clogging pipes of productiveness
Rendering
the flow impossible
A
backed up sewer of sludge
Caked
under dirty dishes
Slowly
draining the life out of you
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