Splitting open all the flesh on our fingers
we hope the subtle pain no longer lingers,
and the magnets on two sides of the tree
come together in the middle cutting it down.
Good swimmers drown in the rough waters
of indecision. Paranoid about the stray cats
that balance on the railing attached to the
walkway. No one likes to talk today, making
eye contact only with front facing cameras
after forgetting they’re there.
We are suspicious about the conversations
we see through the glass in the door,
and never can be sure they aren’t about us.
They want no trust only the flaking rust at
the bottoms of bridges over the interstate.
The truck drivers sit together in bars and
talk about what they’re gonna do if they
ever get those trucks to drive themselves.
It will probably just become what it always
does a moment where the past stares down the
future in cold silence, until the hammer drops,
and there is no way to go but forward.

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