If I live long enough to look back on these
Three weeks with any distance, so to speak,
I think I will remember them fondly, thought
Body. Yes, distance is a metaphor, like any
Other, one that slides like a loose-fitting lid
Over all the changes the language tries
To contain. It's a better cover than I
Have been, self added, to comfort body.
Given the mediocrity of our joint abilities
And the probabilistic normalcy of our luck,
It was luckier than we dared to expect,
When we weren't fantasizing mad victory,
Just to have made it to these three weeks
Of quiet and lazy ease in the villages
By the woods on the lake turning to spring,
After the farewell that seemed likely forever
Nine months earlier. Mind, always reeling
With bulletins from the intersubjective
And invasive hunger of the world outside
Tried to pull a volume off the shelf to prove
That this tranquility at the edge of the great
Falls roaring all around the lake, roaring
With spring rain and snowmelt and gravity,
Would endure at least partly, render better
Whatever dread cacophony came after
When, like all fugitives from the law
Of averages, we'd been swept away, down, and out.
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