At the Supermarket

by Tomás Q. Morín
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Two lines shred me: "If I were trapped in a Rockwell" and "the moment slows the way moments do when the eye is fixed for too long." Thanks for those.

Reading Morin's disturbing poem on this Good Friday afternoon, its closure, that "we inch toward the infinite," gives me pause, and perhaps hope, that we can change what diminishes us all.