Plastic Dirt

In forests in western Massachusetts
There are swarms of bugs
And they don’t scare me half as much
As the idea of a man in New York City
That’s drinking himself to death
I made a pact with myself that I wouldn’t look
At the secret public writings of wayward love
It’s not that she still exists
It’s just that she exists without me
The sun never rises
On this latitude
Flowers don’t grow
Because the dirt is plastic
And towns look for ways
To escape their own sad locations
To other parts of the map
Where names are shorter
I can’t hide out in big cities
Where I might be able
To let go of you
As crabs on the beach
Walk sideways
In front of cross-eyed strangers
And no one ever expects to be
Struck by lightning
And surely this couldn’t happen twice
It removes me like eight black horses
With just four riders
And a white man
With a black dog
Looks for ways to get rid of himself
But there’s no escaping gravity