will it be the days spent with you
rapturously making love;
vulgar hyena-laughter zeroed thereto.
will it be the day spent headthru
ceiling;
ragdolled pose nothingness.
will it be the laying in bed
again counting lie-like sheep;
fornicating jesus of the west speaks no more.
will there be endlike/endtimes—fires
arrive purge dawn through miraculous evening of silence
not heard;
or will it just end, muslin covered evening slopes back toward inevitable powerdown.
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