Don’t Cry Over Spilled Milk

Nights spread out like kitchen tables
With dark, mahogany wood stains,
The grains bowing heavily
To whisper weary words to the horizon;
But not all nights are midnight-flavored,
Some of them even gleam--
Filtered, unphased by broken glass
Or dripping corners;
Light can slip
Like the arms of tired waiters;
Then galaxies like tears
Can spill across the surface
Of those worn-out tabletops--
Making bubbles look like constellations
Connected by the lies we tell
Our great-grandkids
To turn us into legends.

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