I started crying
At 4 am
I woke up everyone in the house

I listened to her voice
soft as dove-sorrow, wondering how

it was going to be not to think, thinking
how I could really answer her one question,

trite as it sounded: Why did it have to be
like this?
  But all I do was ride

silently along, watching the world glide by
in all its cloud-drift temporality
—  Greg Sellers, from “Postseason,” New Letters (vol, 68, nos. 3 & 4, Spring/Summer 2002)