The great rush

Chasing small miracles


How much does this
final touch mean?
And how the mind rushes
through the ravines
Of the almost finished work
To my haste, the sweep hands
of the clock—it is grinning
You fickle little thing!


Uneasy, bang, unbend
Take a deep breath; count to ten
The world ain’t ending tonight
Many people are going to
drink blood
And many more who will
eat bullet
When the minutes are
hiding behind the seconds
Let me finish the varnishing.

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