| THE OTHER LIFE |
| by John M. Morton — June 2003© |
| Mental wrangle, constant stew. Spiky shards of fractured glass Lock with jagged metal; grate and crackle In tipsy partnerships that don’t hold up But slide toward multiple disasters,1 With every hopeless turning of your head. New fractions form again To shriek away on every vector. |
| Your mind stands vexed, violent, bloodshot. Whirling this way and that, Desperate to give meaning This faceless, formless, frontless--nothing. |
| Nothing at all. |
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