Wednesday, 29 April 2009


By the time we gathered round the punchbowl,
exchanged our aches, passed through
spectral penetration and spin back
to our moment, picked clean -
the smaller denominations that held up in earlier decades
get traded away, in a manly way
bid down on the floor for bidding it up
so the spenditure can mature and time flag us down
one by one branded in blank awe, folding
into a détente of happy daily days on installment plans.

But what of the revolution within,
traces mounting cortical ladders of the reactive?
Calls grew far between edgewise.
There was no longer that tumbling
of universal love anyway, though no one stayed home
nor fell back on roll calls elsewhere.
Nothing was on sale.
* * *
By the time we gathered to pass through
our aches and spin back to our moment
picked clean, no longer that tumbling,
the sale edgewise bidding it up
anyway, no falling back, happy calls within.

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