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Thursday, April 20, 2017

Aubade

In the night the lightning slipped into my dream
like a femoral nerve flashing pain. I held the sky

in a funny space, as in the memory of springing
out of bed so afraid of death I tried to run from my

own body. Soft gulp of water keeps me here in a
kind of sundering. I write a message to myself,

I say, “It is still winter, and I don’t feel love for a
single scrap.” I write another message, later, a note

to the pile of dehydrated ladybugs on my sill. Death
is so final, the silence in the backspace held down

to erase an entire novel of sentences. This is how
I encounter all things, an omission in reverse, a silver

latch snapping into attention. Yesterday, a possum
slithered by my window, a yellow odor articulating

a kind of misunderstanding. The sky a dialogue
in not wanting. Today, I push a button and my car

comes to life, a possum lies on the side of the road
unharmed but for being torn out. I open a window

by pushing another button. Loneliness is the easiest
part about this life, a garden I can scrutinize and make

better through neglect. Fruit fattens without me.
It rains all the time and I never write about the rain.

How curious. I wake up like it’s no big deal to wake
up. Early morning is for the loveless, air too thin to

be brutal or anything. When do possums make a sound,
and is it so obscene to hear them.

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