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.
Nothing.
Not even a twig.
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