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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