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Poetry: Politics


We seem to move so slowly, as if
the air, exhausted of freshness,
had sunk upon us in thick folds,
and we -- no longer dancers --
had spent our lives in heavy gesture
through its invisible passivity.

Now we slump, somnolent, enveloped
in custom and liturgy.  Our hands
twitch, outside our awareness,
reflexive, unreaching.        Numb.

Echoes of others' conversations seep
around us, weightless whispers ebbing words
from indifferent walls, disjointed as
dreams, below earshot, devoid of interest,
even when first spoken.    Trivial.

And we sleep, or not, and do not know
sleeping from waking, lips mumbling
to laps -- what, we have forgotten --
cool love, or prayers.
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