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Anticapitalist Sonnet

12743487_10153806649836278_59913331493193064_nAnticapitalist Sonnet No. 3

by Ginger Hütter,

No words but what the market permits.

When I look out across this apartment block

just after the sun comes up, it hits

me then, the bricked-in quiet:  we’re rent

 

torn, cleaved people—hardly neighbors at all.

With the right ears you could hear an atom

spinning; sometimes you can hear through walls:

anger mostly, like a domestic anthem

 

Friday nights when the weather turns warm,

men who spent all week rehearsing silence,

women who spent all week performing

customer service with a smile—that violence

 

its frequency, amplitude go somewhere;

& sitcom laughter fills the summer air.

 

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