Poem by Russell Edson
How I make my soup: I draw water from a tap . . .
I am not an artist. And the water is not so much
drawn as allowed to fall, and to capture itself in a pot.
Perhaps not so much captured, as allowed to gather
itself from its stream; the way it falls that the drain
would have it.
But in this case a normal path interrupted by a pot;
for which soup is the outcome of all I do . . .
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