Three people, at different levels of disarray,
kneel or lean against the outer wall
of where they all return late in their nightmares.

There’s a fence between them and the trees
meant to keep out all that’s not supposed
to be there, but on those smoke breaks
with the migrations of the dullest birds
above them, it mostly felt like it was there
to keep them in.

We break shovels digging for gold infused
with any other dirt but cannot bring ourselves
to uncover that deep treasure born from
jewel encrusted eyes. That one idea that
every king was taught to memorize.

The admiration held for the lewd paintings
of the past is a nostalgia for the love
that’s always missing when there’s contact
with the source of something long left overdue.

A lengthy sorrow for an answer that we never
knew, but always walked down every hallway
like the world just fell to place right at our feet.

A statue of a man that appears to have it all
inside his head only to remember that,
where we live, all this stone’s as good as dead.

There is a dream in this culture of replacing
ourselves with something like the negative
of a photo that we can’t remember taking.

What’s in between all our dimensions has been
breaking and now the rain is lit by multi-colored
billboards that are talking up the latest set of shades
so you can dim the iridescence
of the day.

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