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Rich Murphy


The Meditations of Beckett

In the playhouse pinches of doubt
remind the isolated members of
the audience that each lives.
The ball of act one knocks fingers

against the block of act two.
Two sentence fragments. Together
always catches someone’s flesh.
The pain of not knowing reinvigorates

bottoms on seats until champagne
crowds assume that the more one questions
the deeper one breathes. Up to the neck
in gags, this Descartes improvises at

each stage of his life, his parents stuffed
in trash cans. Leaping from mistrust to
skepticism to prove an existence, each head
and Earth revolve around different suns.