by Abner Dormiendo
On the first day of existence,
the sun chose us. And that was that.
He’s got a street address now
and a delinquent tax record.
Let me explain. I am lying to you
because it is cold where you are.
Cold and far and snow and darkness
and chilly hands. Or maybe not.
But such dichotomies are easier.
And who are you to stop living
multiple lives and occupations
in the snowstorms of my mind?
Teacher and farmer and secret poet.
I need to tell you I don’t love you.
I just need to stop falling in love
with you each time a cool breeze
rushes past the tips of my fingers.
Or revising another novel I will shred
in the hidden office behind my rib cage.
As if my entire body were a mob front.
But isn’t everything a front for something?
How, in my world, cold weather…
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