In the long run, we are all dead.

—John Maynard Keynes

Gray pelt of mouse limp in injury
beneath the kitchen’s leaking ceiling,


gray subtraction. I crouch in a cramped

room displacing my mind, trying to put it



for an instant into your body.

The bait was irony working again,



you can taste the bitter end.

Perhaps you somehow know



there’s nothing to be afraid of:

the irony of nothing, taking



so much of our attention,

power of the vacuum



ripping us again and again

out of our upholstered moment.