a love poem from the upstate desert, late february

 

and now nothing means anything

 

north of the city, late february, wastelands and

industrial parks and nothing quite living

and nothing quite dead

 

each sunfilled day an

infinite weight on the chest

 

each passing moment, and

what to do but drive?

 

shades of luminous grey layered over

shades of luminous grey, and that

the rain here tastes like poison

 

that you learn to accept it

 

and this is the plan, okay?

 

this is the nothing from nothing that

will come to define all of our lives

 

not freedom but the

freedom to consume

 

the need for more even in this

manmade wasteland, and have i failed my

children or was it my own children

who failed me?

 

i’m told the distinction matters

 

i’m told that all wars can be won,

but who are you willing to sacrifice?

 

who do you love more

than yourself?

 

everyone lies at

some point