by joyce carol oates from women whose lives are food, men whose lives are money
half the continent sleeps between us.
half the population has leapt into costume,
a cluster of selves that rolls our eyeballs
to exhaustion. . . .
how strenuous we know it, the innocence of sleep!
forbidden by the midwestern plains
to know each other, nevertheless
we drift into each other:
we overlap somewhere west of kansas city --
sharing a costume, an angel to be thrown to earth,
the impulse of the abyss.
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