I don’t know how I know that but I do. The way turtles
Return home to give birth. Not really like that.
The way you sometimes catch a baseball without
Meaning to. Instinct, but duller. At two or three
In the morning when you want everyone you’ve ever loved
To miss you all at once, when you want to be a tragedy
Or something like that. When my grandfather asks me
What I will write at his funeral and drinks more.
That kind of love. Not much of a love, you say, but love
Is hardly ever much of itself. The kind of love that wants
Everyone to stay awake until it can fall asleep. The kind
Of love that is no one’s darling. That says, break my
Good china. I was throwing it all out anyways