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Seth Simons

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Winter Sonnet

But wait. I’m not an ornithologist.
You’ve never lost your hat in Lake Erie
or come to hate your friend one restless
August in a corn maze in Kentucky.

Last Christmas we poured whiskey into snow
packed wooden bowls and ate it with a spoon.
Your lips were cold blue arrows. A junco
quit itself against the window. It took

too long for us to find it. Still. There must
have been a sign I missed to end up here,
some turn or darker twist of road I lost
track of somehow; feathers, candles . . . I’ve erred

a time or two, sure. Still, I wish. I wish—
I wish so many things. I’ll make a list.

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Your Failure

You have to believe that if you fail you will fail
spectacularly, that your failure will itself be a kind of
success. They will erect a monument to your failure in
the town square, the mayor will read a poem in your
failure’s honor, schoolchildren will look from your
failure to you in hushed awe. You will describe this to
yourself after the ceremony: “Hushed. Awe.” Later,
when it’s all over, the buildings cratered, the children
and their parents hacked to bits, your failure will stick
sideways through the rubble and a bright blue bird
will land on it.

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Golden Rule of Window Washing

On my first day as window washer they tell me the
golden rule of window washing: you must always
look at the window, never through. Or is it always
through, never at? There’s so much to remember.
When I get to my first window I say hell to the rules
and look inside. What I see is a man and woman
trying to kill each other, though it’s clear they’re very
much in love. First he slams her head against the wall,
then she shoves a steak knife through his chest, then
they’re sobbing into each other’s shoulders, then
they’re bleeding out on the floor, small dogs lapping
at their wounds. Do I long for a love like this? Yes,
and I almost had it once, but it’s not my lot. Mine is
to wash the windows, and I’m getting very good.

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Seth Simons is a poet and journalist based in Brooklyn. His work has appeared in Rattle, Fugue, Conduit, GAZE, the Beloit Poetry Journal, Red Wheelbarrow, and the Breakwater Review. He writes Humorism, a newsletter about comedy and labor.

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