seasonless

Look at the ends
to which we’ve gone
to run from our end
so much duller
than our beginning
At the end of the earth we sit
with fork and knife
each on the right side
still waiting to be served
We play parlour games
we’ve always played
to pass the time
as though nothing has changed
I wonder if this is how
one lives without seasons
with no change for which
to wait or plan
and if that changes
what one dreams of
or how one plays out
their last hand

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