Life

I once read furiously—
philosophy, history, name it—
as if it would make
a difference.

Maybe it did,
but not that sort
of difference.

Be honest,
what has life not broken in us?

I’m afraid I’d shatter
if not for jazz,
if not for prayer,
if not for the novels
that gave up on
explaining life
and simply tell
our wretched,
beautiful
stories.