exasperanza
plunked into the quartzsite of our middleage,
this nullandvoid approx- of *what's new* to each and
ez-[stet] one of us
is clumsy, oxish, lowdown, laden,
post-prim(ate), or
fully chosen.
THUS it is
a braindead deadpan pandering apres-midi,
when quarks are all pacific.
it's a mountain we are feuding
with and only
wantonly the forked tongue one cries
to be young due-to
is rusted.
we might have talked were it not for your untimely
constant in-absentia,
and I'm casual with what
you causally have infringed upon,
so all this racket of my voice against the obstacle
retorting hymn lines as if
something might break
through to my capacity for functioning
"you don't say" I repeat
unto your liking, and you look at me,
I think, from everywhere but here
it's that kind of low-grade aftermath
one used to term, after a fashion,
an afternoon the kind in which
one made a day of it.
sheila e. murphy
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