so there we were, seeping sleep,
and rat-a-tat-tat-a-tat-tat
entered fiercely therein,
and it came to me i ought
to rouse myself,
for mayhaps mass murder
was taking place across the street.
moments later
it
finally waded in.
'twas naught but the
coordinated sifting
of
profit ridden rigging's
vigorous churning
of
fictional "years,"
when people cheer
the convened convenience
of closing compartmental doors
on what they've seen and done,
and pretend to enter another,
differently (indifferent)
narratively cordoned
(reflection ill afforded)
"good luck" ordered
(delusion blithely bordered) "happy new year."
and sighing sweet
(in the deeps replete)
the earth swivelled
on around
to fleetly face the sun
(on yet another imaginary
minutely measured "side")
the umpteen quadrillionth time.
and tickled by the two-leggeds'
unconvincing efforts
at reassuring tomfoolery,
Alfonso drifted back
to
seemless unseaming
and
ineffable
timeless dreaming's placeless keep.
*
- Evan Hawthorn
(on an innocent date that asked to remain nameless)
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