Imperfect Cinquain Morning

Five is
not the number
we were both counting on
to guide the sun’s reflection through
the blinds.

Safe prime,
untouchable,
a pent-up starfish waves
the most destructive hurricane
away.

All wounds
trip the senses
except the side one,
which tends to put us violently
to sleep.

Water,
earth, air, fire.
Don’t forget the ether,
or wood, earth, water, fire, then
metal.

I will
remember Speed
Racer’s Mach Five going,
going, going forever, gone
again.

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