Matt Hart



The hills have justice for all
in the forest. It’s louder
than the loudest sound ever
recorded.  We ring
around the fire
with infections in our pockets,
squirrels and antlers
in compromising positions—
big love surprises! You
shoot me some sunflowers,
and I accept.  I accept
your sunflowers, and I raise you
a six-pack. And later I sit
in my yard full of darkness,
dreaming of murder
and of what would happen
after. Freedom fighter
or most wanted. Horror show
or greater good. My daughter
stuck with wonder.  My wife
with her terrible questions
and answers.  I sit
with the fireflies thinking
I’m no good and there’s no reason.
I’m thinking these things
for no good reason.  I can fathom
almost nothing without first
denying its existence, banging
my head through the two-
fisted chorus. Thank you
a lot for the vacuum
of your heart.  I can’t tell you
enough how it helps
when you stand with some cans
and a cloud full of guts,
a buck right beside me
when I slit the devil’s throat.
So much the better
and so much for ghosts.
You’ve been a rebel
and I’ve been a punk.
Our lives together
so wonderfully close.
The hills have our backs
and we deserve it.

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