wednesday, february 12
i told a story today, thinking of you and
those hours grading papers at your kitchen table
the air around us thick with wine and
the ragged, lacerating cold of lincoln
in the winter not far away
nine years on i don't think i've learned
a god damned thing, though i've seen and done
most of what i've ever seen and done
since that night
i'd like to believe in some arc to my own life
like i'd like to believe in that arc of history
but i'm no more a narrative
than is the ragged, lacerating motion
of time itself