For April, In The Season of Loss
by John Sweet

    and if the ocean
    is asphalt
    you cannot drown

    if the man
    sits by himself in
    the cab of his pick-up
    and pulls the trigger
    he is dead

    he is splintered bone
    and flesh growing cold and
    i cannot shake
    his weight

    and the sky
    is not a mirror but a
    hole

    we are blind
    but can still feel

    i want to love you
    despite everything






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