It’s not the simple
or the short or the long
or aching
that comes in waves
and tastes like history
it’s not the fact
that she was gone so suddenly
or had been there at all
or almost wasn’t
even as she wept
it’s not the evermore
enticing idea of an almost
having lived all that we could
dream or conjure or impart
and with fever
it’s not the fever
that spells angels
falling through snowstrewn
sumptuous departures
or rememberings
it is the fullness
of all things happening
as they are and in unison
as if time were just an idea
and we in our stark humility
so much more
The Poet Economist 