this is about

I wrote this poem this weekend while I was at UVA. I sent it to someone in return for a poem they had sent me which they had written while at UVA. The bargain was worth it, and it's important that you know that in case you don't like this poem. It doesn't have a title, mostly because I couldn't think of the right one and it's better not to name something at all than to name it the wrong thing. That's why sometimes I hope my wife thinks of good name ideas so that our children don't go by "thing 1" "thing 2" "thing 3" and "thing 4". I won't tell you what this poem is about, except that sometimes your heart is too full to say anything. 

quiet,

turned-down,

listening.

don’t say what comes to mind,

take another drink and step, sideways, out

into that blue-black pause,

all cigarettes and style,

all young and brave and wild.

laughter-through-walls, call softer

if you could, call more often.

I don’t knead grief anymore, but sleep still slips

out between sheets and tip toes across hardwood into another room.

it’s not cheating, it’s leaving.

You won’t be impressed by this,

but I drank the ocean for you.

best I could do on such short notice.

its storms are my storms,

are our storms.

we tattooed young on our fingers

and toes and heart and

lungs, so that anything that

ever touched us would know.

to be young is to be high,

is to be a fool,

is to lean your weight against love

and rules.

draw what you see, I said, but meant

draw what you mean.

Glory spills over

and our hearts are full of will-you-be-mine’s and see-you-next-time’s.

our minds are full of who we were.

I think less about steps I would unstep

because my heart isn’t tall enough anymore

to reach that shelf.

I didn’t cave, I crumbled.

I didn’t stray, I stumbled.

If I could tell you one thing,

It would be