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When I say everything in the world can look beautiful,

When I say everything in the world can look beautiful,

I mean we don’t. I mean the newlyweds on Fremont Street

are drunk on desert sweat and casino light, dancing from bar to bar

like a thousand gemstones rattling inside a cavern, while you and I barely

manage to glare across this cocktail table, having forgotten how to touch

without flinching. Inside our skin we’re little more than towers of bone

and I don’t know how to keep us stable without tenderness, the vow we made

to treat each other’s wounds like faults in ceramic. Maybe we’re cut too deep

for mending. Maybe we should try imploding like the Stardust—

wouldn’t it be nice to unearth a boon of buried poker chips

and remarry at every neon chapel on the strip? To collapse into something

bigger than ourselves for a change? Let’s start small, like plumes

rising from an aftermath or pools of runoff leaching opals of lye from ash,

one black grain at a time. We can press the demolition between our palms

and call it a beginning.  

 

 

Sameul Piccone is the author of the poetry chapbook Pupa. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Southeast Review, Passages North, Arts & Letters, Flyway: Journal of Writing and Environment, American Literary Review, and others. He serves on the poetry staff at Raleigh Review and teaches at Nevada State College.

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