The loofah used to be
a living thing, I imagine
it’s the skeleton of a sea
sponge. I know better,
invertebrate, but don’t you
dream of leaving something
like a loofah behind? Maybe it’s
a hollowed out cucumber
husk of hay. Loofahs are, no
matter what, a harvested
thing. They may very well
cartwheel carelessly across
tiny tracts of pavement, train
themselves eventually to be
pinned to small shrubs or
park benches. I’d sleep
in a loofah. In a loofah
I’d awake a narrow tunnel
of morning.


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