august in the
year of blind gods

no one
mentions the starving
and no one pities the weak
and no one thinks to
water the plants

you understand how irrelevant
these facts are

you stand on a boat
on a lake in upstate new york

the sun is a silent glare
the air a fist without mercy
and your wife asks a question
you don’t hear

you turn to her to speak and
what comes out is
(i don’t love you anymore)

clean and simple
and not a cloud in the sky

maybe the small laughter of water
or the sound of your son
playing at your feet

maybe the quiet roar of blood
pounding through

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