Cataloged in your history between your first move
and your last taste of espresso, my hardback volume
loses pages each month, and I thank the years for passing.
In the expanse of ruined neighborhoods, we had a laugh
at the peace we found a couple thousand miles
from our conflicts—the admitted relief of escape.
and the rear windshield's heated lines,
but your condensation drawings dried in the summer.
I grew up the way you'd expect: with the stories
of strangers, with the sharp climate of new cities.
I heard a soldier tell of leaving his wife and family.
I heard myself reconstruct the past as it flickered
through the subway window. So I left it underground
and tasted the universe like I hadn't before.
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