By Bob Brussack

Halfway between the car and the back gate
On one of those antiseptically sharp December nights
When the air huddles, silent,
It occurs to me that the stars,
Were they capable of it,
Might find bemusement
In the tales we retell ourselves
With each new season of dark and cold and snow
To keep at bay the bittersweet truths
We pretend we don’t know.

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