Pinch Punch

The quiet outrage of the month’s indifferent turn.
The chicken or the egg.

The fly-leaf, colophon, contents page.
The familiar disappointment of the new.

The original integer.
The gold medal place.

The square root of itself.
The dawn.

The innovator.
The arrival.

The withered vertical, the silhouette.
The lonely start.

The primary, the premiere, the genesis.
The one without equal: to begin at the beginning.

The sudden sting of skin between finger and thumb.
The swing of a tree-trunk, square in the gut.

And no return.


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