with
soft rain in the afternoon and
an
abundance of green
with
the dogs all hungry but
none
of them starving yet and the
simple
fact that this is one way to live
this
is only the blind man’s dream
of
the western ocean
st
maria in those last pale grey
centuries
before her ascension
told
her i loved her but
it
was more like need
was
cerulean blue and
darker
than addiction
the
highway into the desert
uncorrupted
by religion
littered
with bones and the fragile
skulls
of missing children and
i
am not a believer in the
age
of reason
i
am a different whore
than
the one you remember
found
new and better
ways
to hate myself
stood
naked beneath the smothering
heat
of august afternoons in a
neighborhood
of absence
of
locked doors and flatness in all directions
no
trees
no
birdsong
just
anemic shadows nailed to dead lawns
and
i knock on every door
but
no one answers
i
close my eyes but get
no
sense of waiting
no
sense of hope or potential
a
week’s worth of rain on the way and
then
the loss of everything we’ve
spent
the last twenty years amassing
the
simple joy of despair
a
small gift to give to my
sons
for when ordinary miracles
are
no longer enough
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