It’s been seven years since that day,
but I hesitate, to call it a day.
It was a moment, elongated, multiplied,
amplified by the meaninglessness
of the moments before it, and the gravity
of all moments after.
can be traced back to that moment.
Some people say all moments go back,
to all the ones before. Maybe for some they do.
I read the poetry I wrote, trying to surround
the moment in words, lock it
in a cage of language that expressed grief,
so I wouldn’t have to feel it.
Someone said, “we write to taste life twice”
It seems a romantic notion now, because sometimes,
Sometimes we write, so we can avoid tasting it