fully

we expect from ourselves, constantly,

immortality. we're not able to be aware 

of the shortness of things, so our waking days

are spent in spinning circles. we know

in our head all the true things: we will die,

we will not remember all the throbbing

paper-cut injustices at the end of things.

we will love, and those moments

will burn and sweep and cleanse away

in smoky fire, everything.

everything else. even the moon.

this is a poem composed while leaning against

the kitchen sink

in the moonlight through the window slats

at 11:29 on a Friday.

I think, more these days that I ever have

that we will wake up laughing.

but it will be quiet laughter:

the way we laugh when we learn something

we should have known before

but have only just discovered, fully.