History makes its noise we duck/ till it passes*—

or we stride forward taking its halter in our hands—
but it won’t always go to the water, it won’t
always go where we want. It bares its teeth
and asks for impossible breakfasts: croquembouche,
pâté, ox tails or tongue— It’s surly, has
unpredictable manners, then for no reason at all
lifts the roof in a shimmer of helium balloons.
And when it springs love, I am lost as a needle
wrung loose from its compass. The same with fear,
the shambles of a street fallen to pieces, towers
broken in a great earthquake, a tidal wave of ruin
tossed like party favors in its wake. The end
of the year approaches, dear one. Come, let’s make
peace with one another. Let’s step into each
other’s arms and try a slow dance for a change.

* from “Epic” by Ange Mlinko