why every poem should be the last one

july and this
abundance of weeds, these
vines growing without pause or
regret, smothering and strangling beneath
the flat silver glare of the sky, and
                               were we drunk?

                                 are we stoned?

takes a handful of pills just to
make me feel normal in the morning

took fifteen years to peel away all the
dead flesh and then all i was
was fifteen years older

sounds like a joke
but the punchline needs work

sounds like a song written from
a great distance and with
broken hands and she says listen

she says
just let him die

july and the
heat of the railroad tracks

the buzz of empty fields

insects and generators and children
sleeping off sicknesses, fans in
curtained rooms and, outside, the broken
toys all faded plastic and splintered
wood, all rusted metal and here,
                                                now,
year of the bleeding horse,
fever dream of my father’s last hours,
i want you to know that i
forgive no one

i want you to know that i
have made peace with myself

i cast this shadow down these cracked
and buckled sidewalks, over patches of
warm tar, and i am afraid of
everything that exists beyond my control

i am choked with the fear of
all my failures

can remember the two of us in love beneath
the absolute weight of the summer sun
but can’t seem to make it matter