The land is our ocean

There are no beaches
In this town. No rolling waves to
Wash our un-wanteds back out to sea

Here we bury our trash
Dig it up after 48 hours
Then devour it
Slathered in barbecue sauce

No sliding foam across the sand
Or salty wind to mask the
Seagulls’ starving cries.

The sky has no competition
There is no port of entry. We
Have no way to see them coming

Things just pop up
Like grass. We cover
Them in colored blankets
And offer up a contract
Like soldiers in a war.

But there is no war. There
Is only God and weather.
And we do not fear the weather.

Like a mirror pointing outward
We long to be ourselves
In the reflection of the world
Like a painted mirror.
Like lipstick on a bowl of oatmeal

It’s the sin that makes the
Fucking so good
The sandbags of guilt that
Keep the church basement dry

Pure pure. It’s been so long.
The kind of pure you could just kill for.

We covet what we have
A peak within a valley
It’s different for cows

Flatness
The earth, canvass, the screen
It all disappears when we sleep
Even in sleep mode
We act like it’s the same
And it is

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