first, then

first, then last, then in between
the cicada buzz of consciousness

just maddening, like intention, like
things postponed in some other life

tunneling futures you won’t have
dogging you in retrospect, it arrives

on thousands of small wooden feet, nothing
as riveting as war’s sloppy calculations

but like death in key respects, relentless
talk of things impossible to know


. . .

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