For Doug

Archivists have said of time that it’s drafted

in vapor and written in ink, that it cannot be tailored

and cannot be laundered; but if its voice

were mine to speak with, it’s you who’d have

heard me.

In the sinews of your knuckles, I’d unlace your fever,

tell you those hands still caulked souls

and that the altar never had outgrown you.

Tell you they were not too broad or gray

to wash -- tell you none would ever feel the same

against your daughter’s cheeks as they did.

Across the alps of all your scars, I’d let them show

you where they came from -- summer poison oak

and Dangerous Currents you weren’t afraid

to tread, a Jamboree where you learned

to tie the knot they never thought you’d use.

Tell you it was not that rope, anymore, and that this

was not practice; this was the wife who

would find you in that hemp manacle,

who would recognize the upset stool from her kitchen

and never know if she should burn or balance

on it forever.

From your dungeons, I’d unbury our handshake

at your wedding, when I did not notice the gravel

of callous on your warm, florid palm,

when I felt no tremor of venom in your pulse,

when I understood I’d be comparing

blue eyes to yours for the rest of my life.

Tell you tomorrow is not a legend

because I’ve been there

and it misses you.

For what it’s worth, I’d change your mind.