In a poem, Jon?
What’s wrong with you?

You know, I’ve been asking myself that very question,
giving my harness bells a shake
like Robert Frost’s horse,
wondering if there is some mistake.

That summer it was far easier
to simply pretend it had never happened,
face afire, thinking it queer
that Peter and David Van Etten lay convulsing on the lawn,
the longest evening of the year.

Do you see the blessing, how we all let go?
Do you see we were transfigured
and how it threw us all?
Do you tell yourself, “Giddy-up, brother ass?”

Do you promise yourself miles of lovely darkness
before sleeping?