Straight couples in denim and white Nikes
drink enough beer and then forget their keys.
                       The two of us mock them. As if.
As if we don’t feel the same mysteries.


It gets harder at night to see the view.
It’s late. The band that played songs no one knew
                       starts to pack up. We are adrift:
neither knows where to go or what to do.


When their divorce was final, papers signed,
my parents gave up fighting and were kind.
                       No one knows if or when the end
is near. You and I only know what’s behind.

                                                                    —Nathan Blansett

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 40 Number 6, on page 31
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