there are no gods

by Jefferson Hansen

                        for Billy & the crew at MW,

                        bartenders who know how it's

                        done

when the water goes brackish

and flows only against you

when salt shows up in all

the wrong places, drying,

come to me

when the leaves go back to branches

and curl back into buds then

into grey barren arms that

have forgotten everything

come to her

when grass goes brown and curls

back into the ground to spite

our thirst for green and the sand

blows everywhere and about

come to him

when the car goes orange and flakes

with rust when it needs yet another

quart when you can’t get the mileage

you need just to make it to work

come to them

when the bartender’s eyes crust

with boredom and refuse to even feint

at the therapist role and the clerk

lectures you on buying cigarettes

come to them

when the half and half has gone sour

and all the dishes have nothing but

crust in the bottom and the washer

and dryer decided not to work

come to him

when the wind whistles about your

ears as dead as granite but more threatening

simply for moving like an eye’s

sharpness from another

come to her

when the ground becomes only

crevice and you feel out every step

like descending stairs in darkness

only, with earth, the dirt crumbles

come to me

all we have is each other.