Stand, sometime, on the cusp of an overpass
with the thrum of the highway beneath you.
Oil, and old stamps,
concrete falling away, falling away.
There are things known, and things unknown
and the peace between.
We are not dead, but dying.
To stand here is to grieve.
For the young man, full of his fists,
becoming anything but a father.
Desire, only a movement towards love,
made again and again without success.
Time has not changed us.
It will not.
I have said in my heart, “I will be wise”
but it was far from me.
Is it humility, to err so often and so wholeheartedly?
Man of letters, man of questions—
ask: you shall not receive.
We stand. We wonder.
The hard clench of tires and steel goes on,
and goes on.