Each year we kill the Kitchen God and each year he rewards us for our faith.
A row of days like beads on a wire.
The croupier rakes them in with a wry grin and then asks:
Do you want to bet your life?
The Kitchen God came down
from where we had impaled him on hooks
and in gratitude for our piety
he set the days down one by one
and filled each of them with the suns glow
like a candle in a paper bag.
And he weighted the bags with sand
which finally ran out at the end of our lives
When the bags finally caught fire and blew away.
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