A sense of unreality persists,
water pressing against much more than water.
The people you bump into.
Just one long moment stretching out towards
that point where the second law of thermodynamics
takes up the slack.
The products we found in your account
can’t be used to activate Word.
The thoughts in your head drift about
like clouds in the sky.
Somebody, somewhere,
is going to write a bleak, unreadable novel
against the backdrop of the coronavirus lockjaw
(deep).
Standing ovation or withering indifference?
Maybe, as a compromise: blind contempt.
What is the correct amount of scorn
in our disregard of Mick Jagger?
And the winner is.
Light words alight upon an unlit page.
The main concern is laughter.
Nonsense is beauty leaving all its clothes off.
‘Good night, dear poem; this is where I fall asleep.’
Things cut in half.
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