In 12 days it will be November 14th

I have no reason to care about November 14th

and I have every reason to write a poem about it.

Maybe by November 14th, I won't drive 70 miles an hour

past the gun shop on Route 2

in space, the atoms found their mark

somewhere far from everybody's heart

from then on, on a purge to the deep end

you persist, someone told you the answer

lies under 6 feet of sea sand.

every twist of inadequacy's blade

(each one worse than the previous)

fell in a rhythmic order, one that your silence

carried in. did you hate me?

you'd never say so. so blindly, i never changed.