A vast, unwieldy, seamless thing of things,
Amorphous, morphing back into itself,
Without a start or finish, beginning, end
Or middle ground to tell just where we stand,
Or find a reason when none can exist;
For, even sober, it's as though we're pissed,
And in a foreign country, not our land
Of birth, where strangers beg & steal, not lend
Themselves to others or the world, & pelf
Is all that's understood of life's plain dealings?
To live thus here & now is all we know
Or can be known, in fact, by biased, partial
Slaves to freedom's wider claims; or so
We like to think, if we think at all?

L. A. Barron


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