>From Purgatory, New Hampshire

It is April 1st and appropriately 
raining.
Everything is covered in water, even the air 
is saturated.
The town has become a sponge, soaking up the sky.
In places it can take no more, but you can tell
it wants to. 
Small pools of overflow form, brown.
Between thoughts of love
and cigarettes, I have invented a new way
of drowning. Moisture and smoke. 
I am anxious. We all share
warmth, water, and air, and still
there's a dry spot on a dirty car. 
I can't believe how insolently 
inconsistent the world can be. 
The pavement is the darkest blue
and only glossy when you walk away
far enough from the light to let it collect.
Moving away from things brings them closer 
together.
This is what we are afraid of here.
Why we can't let go.
Why we all suffer together.
I couldn't cry over a broken pencil
that described, exactly, how I felt,
broken, and in the rain, on the ground.
It comes out instead as the desire 
to clean your clock,
fuck you up, make you
ugly and broken. 

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