KAFKA OF THE POOL HALLS
The pockets are filled with bumpers
and the corners are squares on edge;
the balls travel in circumlinear paths,
like orbs out chasing heads. This is
the Mystery Pallet Pool Hall, and
you are probably dead. The Magistrate
has no more robes; he's given them all
away. The execution chamber is closed
right now but reopens on Saturday. Two
times ten, the odds are given, marble
ice in the bourbon glasses. The man
comes around to collect these things
and write each name on passes : those
pockets, once filled with bumpers,
recall, are now empty voids of space
into which strange things fall. Your
life-energy may be coming back, but
hey, not in the life again soon. The
castle doors are closing. They're
shutting off the moon.
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