8.17.20

The flickering dream
releases unkind giggles
in minute gusts.
The weeping trusts
all stagger backward.
Just in case we have
to have an emergency.
Not one papier-mâché saint
stands in opposition.
And revisions to the final product
wind up in the ashtray.
Getting things off my chest for once.
Traipsing o’er the undiminished regions,
rubbing my mouth raw
with silken fingers.
How the punchline
like a hangnail lingers,
and indeed, we depend
on the truth of this to span the years.
Our imposing array
of feeble fears
holds us to account.
Never what one’s expecting,
but this is what fuels our fancy.

-r. miller

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