by Walker Zupp

I’m looking at seagulls from my room picking at dead things
On the ground.
I see dogs licking their arse, the farmer’s car coming around

The corner. He’s going home for a good shag. I doubt
He’s got joint
Problems. Clouds – I can’t see anything else. I think that’s the point

Nothing here, in a blink or a look – a casual glance at
The voters
And their convergence on silence by wet fields and nooks. Notice

Their failures; that’s what weighs them down; ever – present earmarks
Which put wise
And pitch dreams back. At first, you can’t see then;highways, sheepish cries

For help block the bleak view. You look around – perhaps being
Alone is
Worth more than happiness. It fogs the thickened window; blocking

That picket fence but bloating common sense, somehow: A sense
We all know
But are too afraid to try when we find ourselves without friends

Or mirrors.

The madness of Valentines Day lies in the vanity
Of love in
The making; all those smiles on crutches, which tumble in

To the dead of night like rain. That is where we live – in a
State or sound,
Hoping that warm hands will wait for us – not the other way ’round.

What weighs me down?


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