A stirring stirs the moment thick,
the tension retching, red as brick.
We host the hopeless in our hands
and stop their throats with bitter sands.

So what? The witch’s beard is slick
with spit and hexed arithmetic.
She twitches, thrusts a candlestick
into the angels’ grimy lands
a stirring stirs.

And though our river’s eyes are quick
we can contain them with a click
and fry them as the river stands
in self-defeating awe. Oh! glands
of pleasure, ease the Bolshevik
a stirring stirs.

-r. miller


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