Seriously, Nothing

        How you dispose
        of the body, that’s as crucial
        as how you choose
        to do the deed. Didn’t they tell
        you that before giving you the nod?
                Nothing.        It’s just odd.
        Bare hands deep in dirt,
        the baby’s father carves a garden
        into the fertile hurt
        of his child’s sunny laughter, given
        like poems seeded as if come back.
                No, nothing.        It’s still black.
        Holes dug for the fence
        hit hard on something other than rock,
        hadn’t been there since
        cleaning up debris after last week’s attack.
        He can’t so easily quit on his hates.
                Oh, nothing.        It’s nuts.

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