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