is that your bicycle out there beneath the shade trees?

give mercy but don’t ask it.
the margin has always been
narrow,
the people too dull
too serious
too angry and
fitful, furious.
dying will not be any more
immense
than any other
frivolous
task.
to be here
opening drawers
walking through courtyards
reading pages
escaping obvious
traps,
bathing, eating, sleeping,
celebrating
holidays,
imagining love
imagining  victory;
our days are neither
common nor
uncommon;
we either lock up or
murder those too
different;
sameness is the
measure,
we do what we do
as we do,
we are routine
even in our
daring.
that is the stuff
of us,
it’s not enough
even though it can’t be
compared.
the fairest thing we can say
is: continue the
moment.

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