Scattered Snows, to the North

Does it matter that the Roman

Empire was still early in its slow

unwinding into never again? Then,

as now, didn't people burst into tears

in front of other people, or in private,

for no reason that they were willing

to give, or they weren't yet able to,

or for just no reason? I've never

stopped missing you, I used to

practice saying, for when I'd

need those lines, as I assumed

I would, given what I knew then—

nothing, really—about things

like love, trust, the betrayal

of trust, and a willfulness that's

only deepened inside me, all

these years, during which I can

almost say I've missed no one—

though it hurts,

                            to say it...

Honestly, the Roman Empire,

despite my once having studied it,

barely makes any sense to me now,

past the back-and-forthing of

patrolled borders as the gauge

and proof of hunger's addictive

and erosive powers. But there were

people, of course, too, most of them

destined to be unremembered,

who filled in their drawn lives

anyway—because what else

is there?—to where the edges

gave out. If it was night, they lit

fires, presumably. Tears

were tears.