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Rapture
there is nothing
to make of it
or to make it of
save what lies about
heaped on the floor
laid out like a map
outside the window
not to laugh at
objects on a desk
tools of trade
arrayed so to speak
to speak so
of nothing in particular
the patterned refrain
of Euro disco
where chromosomes
bang together
in a small box
as a coloured light
goes on and off

 
Poet's Note: January 2002