what happens next…

stuck in the middle

far too early for anything
as democratic as breakfast. our
cigarette cornucopia verified
by a single burning tip showing
through momentary darkness
hiding anything certain like
whether we’d been up for days
or needed to wipe the sleep
from eyes barely open,
then & now.

formally paranoid aluminum
men swear allegiance to an
indeterminate theory of
causality found in an
out-of-date textbook they
can’t read. a few of us
fence-squatters decided it
was easier to sway with
the breath of wind;
never having to push
harder than some minimum
effort against crowds
of delirium on both
sides endeavoring to plead
a case we few didn’t care
to hear.

enticements of experience,
expositions of the possible
& every soft animal pelt
running around the forest
keeping winter freeze at
bay; it all meant nothing
against decisionless paradise.
without anything said or
or done or planned.

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