hm redux

more from the artwork that doesn't exist. title courtesy of dmitry berenson.



Forty Miles Past

your high school graduation is a hilltop.

Below it is a wide valley.
There’s a house for every day of your life.

The first ones to catch the eye, the obvious ones perhaps,
have exceedingly well-manicured lawns, the type
where you can guess the occupants’ lives at a glance.

They’re the types of houses that have guest rooms
with clean sheets and comforters. Pillows that will swallow
your sins while you sleep, turning nightmares to dreams
in the alchemy of their feathered embrace.

Next are the ones with For Rent signs out front.

Again, clean sheets, warm blankets,
but the pillows ask too many questions.

Then there are the ones
where the weeds outnumber
the blades of grass on the lawn,
the houses whose doors stand open like empty mouths,
but everyone knows better than to step inside,
though some still do,
slipping into their unlit interiors,
leaving behind only faint stains
like hope about forgetting, or finding,
or a handful of pennies, a wishing well
and nothing better to do.