how not to be lonely
Like thirty-seven boar spears caught mean at the lugs,
silhouettes of Italian cypresses wound the evening.
Along each gate, copper angels lean forward,
as if waiting to fall into the next set of arms
that pass beneath them. Most relationships are like this.
You could, yes, build a life here; sidereal, as it may be. You could
park an old trailer, like a Boles Aero
or a Spartanette, near the edge of the lavender pit,
unroll a carpet of plastic grass, and lay a welcome mat on top.
You wouldn’t have to make sense here;
you could spend your days setting mannequins
to wave across empty highways at one another. Shoot off-calibers
at the daymoon until it quits its paleblue skulking
and gets back to its night.
Each afternoon, the egrets will balance themselves to sleep.
Each evening the electrical wires will fall silent
and the cottontails, nervously, will hum in the bushes.
You are going to die.
And even animals know that when you do,
you’ll hurt anyone that’s still close to you.
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