Who made up that myth of happiness, 
              the kind supposedly only as happy 
as the most unhappy of one's children?  

              Some mornings, the tide rises to cover 
part of the road nearest the low curve at the river's 
             broken lip. There are  clear marks where vehicles 

have skirted water's habitual edge. Rise and ebb,
             increment by increment. Grass hasn't stopped
 growing there. Many of our thoughts don't always 

            distinguish which words to believe, which  
are stuck in the mud of common wisdom. Anyone
           would know the laundry won't come clean there.

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