she waiting in line, can't remember
all over there are micro shivers hate
no juice that size they not moving
eating is now decontextualized from
intrinsic motivation or that the ceiling
has dropped out of all the drives
leaves the naked redundancy of being
alive if there's no one not one bag
boy or checker or or shopper that's
off enough to poke through the torpor
to a tenderer encounter but they all
pissy folding through the clock our
clucking metronome the wide-stanced
demon's tympani crying writhe!
writhe! beem-bum and all writhe
riding in their swinging hammers
hermits and the depressed shadowing
do-selves doing in the do milieu
horrified or dozing in a sugar box
to forget they are being used for
cookies or spatchcocked on a wire
fence as if they're sweet for a charnel
house as if they sweet as if
they no time not now at least
like each step has a meaning tho
the earth's turning, not the feet
Lillian Modat
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