Poem #23: Four Senryu

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Crock full of wooden spoons;
I can stir things up
as long as they're not on fire.
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Radio on all night.
Fervid pundits put me to sleep,
but I wake to a light rain.
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She insisted she was chaste,
but the ethics of her perfume said
leather, smoke, bruised lilac.
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The oxygen machine has
a 30-foot hose.
Beyond that, you're in your own atmosphere.
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