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In the long run, we are all dead.

—John Maynard Keynes

Gray pelt of mouse limp in injury
beneath the kitchen’s leaking ceiling,

gray subtraction. I crouch in a cramped

room displacing my mind, trying to put it

for an instant into your body.

The bait was irony working again,

you can taste the bitter end.

Perhaps you somehow know

there’s nothing to be afraid of:

the irony of nothing, taking

so much of our attention,

power of the vacuum

ripping us again and again

out of our upholstered moment.