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Poetry: Politics

 

Sometimes, he just feels tired,
as if it will continue, seamless
and indefinite, without culmination
or relief.  Days differ only in 
their topics of concern:
what does not change is anxiety,
the persistent sense that something,
perhaps important, depends on
this endless juggling of too many
small issues unresolved, of
razor blades in loose wrappers
snicking through the air in
an agitated pas de deux with
edges and flats, and nervous fingers.

Tick, tick, tick: they fall and
are snatched and flicked upward, away,
but never out of sight. Sometimes,
he thinks  it will continue like this
forever, seamless and indefinite,
without culmination or relief. 
Sometimes, he just feels tired.
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