A poem for Thursday

I bought three Jack Gilbert poetry books last week and have been devouring them. Poetry suits this time of year, I think. It's busy and a little unsettled right now, but poetry offers a quick little escape hatch from reality and I can read one over the stove while the water boils, or in the laundry room while the cycle ends. Last week, Todd wrote this. And then I read this poem and thought about the familiar agony of all this. Via.

Going There
Of course it was a disaster.
The unbearable, dearest secret
has always been a disaster.
The danger when we try to leave.
Going over and over afterward
what we should have done
instead of what we did.
But for those short times
we seemed to be alive. Misled,
misused, lied to and cheated,
certainly. Still, for that
little while, we visited
our possible life.
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