I
slipped inside of the
oily
puddle today.
Even
though I knew it
was
there.
The
twig you threw was good
enough
to save
itself,
barely.
Still,
it was the strangest thing.
While
I was waiting,
suddenly
I had this tree.
Not
much moves me,
but
I had to move for the roots.
They
were so big.
It
burned inside, I know it.
The
petrol had to burn the
branches
inside,
had
to leave scars that
never
turn white.
The
explosion would have
horrified
you,
had
you waited to see.
Oil
does that—
it
explodes.
And
then there is nothing left.
Not
even a twig.
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