They speak quietly
and wear their heads at half-mast.
Truly, a dark magic broods here.
Whistle a lame tune
as if to stave off its inner workings.
I am not my own self today
or any yesterday that still means anything.
Though they play for keeps
(not my concern), their fingers
loosen more easily mid-dirge
and whatever contents
their palms contained
come tumbling down
to our little plot of fried soil.
These we can distribute or decimate.
No allowance for nuance,
not in my bed, not with my character
convulsing intermittently
in the inclusivity matrix.
Twilight spreads lithe wires
to unsnare what remains of noon.
Privately, we start stuttering.

-r. miller

One thought on “12.17.18

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