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for some time,
in these troubled moments,
midst the uprooted formless firmament
where rawest poems come from,
and the saddest gentled, go to die,
colloquially a place, a space,
we call,
time
in these, them days of lockdown quarantine,
time has lost its preeminence,
the swagger of precision-swiss-definition
of the imposing measuring stick of
routine
is lost to that very
formless firmament
we look at each aghast,
with wild puzzlement faces,
inquiring of each other,
“what day of the week is it?”
the eavesdropping, spying voice of this device
answers,
“see the upper left corner”
which is kind of a miracle
but not nearly as amazing that
a few hours later,
or some time span of an approximate relevancy,
(we assume,)
we ask each other, once more,
in a reverie of hopelessness,
with total no-pretense of the
when,
no, worse,
the frightening pointy needlessness of
why
it matters
“dearest darling,
pray, pray,
what day of the week is it?”
writ on the Isle of Manhattan