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LOST IN THE FUNHOUSE

Kevin Clay

 

Well, here we are, Karl and I.

Worried like fat old hens

with the new-born minute

chirping away the time.

Chirping, chirping. Brief testaments---

and purple---out of reordered time’s

last syllable.

Karl laid an egg he can’t fight

I can’t fight.

An insensate passage

of moment to moment

just will not be

reversed. And time’s

continual regicide leads us on.

Like a lady leads a dog

From one quivering crouch

to the next. It is

a form of foul subtraction

that trims root and branch

to necessity. And we chirp on,

get of the same eggs,

trapped forever

by a bloody-minded clock