CONFLICTS OF INTEREST

Some things make sense 

but also don’t, simultaneously,

like blasting O Holy Night in July, ninety whole degrees

of hell incarnate. It works only because it shouldn’t. 

Like two wrongs colliding to form a singular right,

two opposite somebodies designing a likeness

called love. Or how sometimes I still choose 

to pour over letters from an ancient flame, 

diving back into the clutches of a dead life

that can no longer warm me. It is foolish, I know, 

but wise to me. It is precisely how 

I find presence in the absence of him,

sacred music in his infinite silences,

some invented, good-enough version of heaven 

to keep me company in this cruel, 

indifferent,

unholy July.

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