Each day, I’m hollowed by
the Recession’s vacuum, & either
create my life or perish— no sense
of safety or coherence from a storied
past. As I walk Conshohocken’s
streets, I note the sky, just before
dawn, amusing itself in pastels—
ice on branches over tiny front/
back yards— all held self-sufficiently
in time’s objective indifference,
which I now feel passionately about,
for & against, December’s circuits—
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