Returning to the Invisible


I watched my house recede to the invisible

as the water rises and the slow flat boat ferries me away.


My only baggage— the wife in her angels nightgown,

my chihuahua, a revolver loaded with dusty bullets—


all collapsing in the flow, dissolving into rot and mold,

a place not all that comfortable for other people,


a belligerent child evaporating into condemnation,

a concrete overhead blocking my view of heaven.


My archive of creeping shame sheds their existence

until it fits into the reality I see, no longer see.


I can only call this invisible place, this marred space

what it originally was before the water and erasure—


I called it love.

I call it love.


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