On the evening they try to kill you
you won’t think of me. I will remain standing
by the side of the road. I won’t come through for you.
In small ways, perhaps. Avoid eye contact
with the landscape at low tide. Let’s find
the only restaurant open after the hurricane,
just as it starts raining again. Let’s hide in the tunnel
under the parkway we drove when we were made up
of a completely different set of molecules.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 39 Number 6, on page 26
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