Returning to the Invisible

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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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