I still struggle to understand.
And oh the days and ways of woe since then,
this moon who won’t love us
as we need, only the unrequited touch,
only the empty skin on skin of stolen hours
fractured out of time
and these sharp wings that beat
through black, star-shredded space
vast as memory, but not everlasting.
—Bruce Weigl, closing unrhymed tercets to “My Early Training” from Archeology of the Circle: New and Selected Poems (Grove Press, 1999)