keeps his
most sunlit words in a secret box but
right now
this dull business of driving home throughgrim november twilight, this ocean of blurred headlights,
these glimpses of bodies left bleeding on icy sidewalks,
in trash-filled gutters
wolves
shot at the edges of barren fields because
you have
to keep the animals separate from humanity
you need
to waste your days debating
the rights
of rapists
need to
let the politicians decide how best to
protect
the wealthy from the poor and, later, he wakes upstanding naked in his back yard,
laughing through a mouthful of broken glass and
he can’t find his wife and he doesn’t
remember her name
can’t
shake this recurring dream about the
first
woman he ever loved
how he
watches her fall off the edge of the world
hears the
door to his future shut
softly but
without any doubtand the walls are blue and the stars have no
meaning beyond themselves
forecast
of five below zero and he wades
slowly
into the water
understands
that christ’s wounds have no more
importance
than anyone else’s but isn’t sure how to turn this knowledge into a painting
has no
explanation for the
man dying
in the bed at the far end of the hall
can’t even
hear his own breathing over the
steady
grind of these rusted and useless machines
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