journal for new poetry
Chris Andrews
Brother
People get us mixed up all the time
but if what nature really abhors
is uniformity, we’re OK.
We look at a painting. Your gaze flies
to the vanishing point in the sun.
Mine sinks to the squishy fallen pear.
You wish people would open up more.
I think wait you can’t unsee that stuff.
Where I spy a fathomless chasm
you find a slide on a gentle cline.
All around me, standards are falling.
You tell me the Singularity
is upon us, but that's what I mean.
You say outrage is so rewarding.
I say you’re not paying attention.
Don’t you ever get cold adopting
the point of view of the universe?
Your delicacy makes me vomit.
It’s so mutual. We can only
pretend to agree to disagree.
You call it turquoise. I know it’s blue.
Trace that rugged story arc, brother.
What the stone torso hauled from the sea
dumbly sings is: Life must change your you.
Our differences are articulate
but the thing I still don’t understand
is why you don’t want to be like me.