The Logistics of Impermanence

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Lilian’s goats must be cold this morning.

The steam rising from a coffee mug

Tells you where to hang the blankets

And duct tape shaky window panes.

 

In an old draughty house

The most you can hope for

Is the last of your heat

To warm a dying bed.

 

When your thoughts turn

Not to songs and sonnets,

Multitudes and analogies

But to the factory where

 

Your death bed was made;

What kind of wages,

What kind of conditions,

What intent stalked that factory floor?

 

We’re all connected in the wind

But die alone lost in ephemera

Like a storm cleansing a forest,

The sound of bells heading to the barn.

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