Another normal day where we
tally up the numbers of what we gave away,
but I can’t stay and watch.
The past won’t stay out of my dreams
like it is ink bleeding through the page,
and all the words there are disfigured
like the bodies being burned in crematoriums
who never list their addresses.
She takes the curtains down so everyone
can see inside and then decides to just
stare back at them and wait.
The rusty gate out in the front yard
comes unlatched with just the winds
that land against it, now defenseless,
she is daring all the unknown all around her.
A Grandson tears a flounder off the hook
leaving a star shaped scar above its silver lips,
then lets it slip out of his hands over the starboard side,
and back into the sea.
How many more of them must we reel in
to finally feed that part of us that hungers for
the core of something more.
As he turns the boat back he sees his grandfather
on the shore knowing for sure that he is hoping
for a catch that they can hold over the fire.
He’d be a liar if he told him that nothing’s biting
out there mixed with all the waves,
but always caves when he is questioned
and admits he doesn’t care enough to kill.
Another hill between the homeless and their home
but they will climb it still and summit
all the hollow held desires of the so many
eating up those precious lies.
A final rain to clear the clouds
and open up the skies
where everybody dies and only some of us
have found a way to live.
Another dead branch on the tree
with nothing more to give.

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