unresentful

I wonder what my forefathers would think: their heir drinking potions — poison —

an industrial solvent if we’re honest,

dancing, laughing, flailing — loving other men, and finally tossing and turning in intoxication til the tall hours of the weekend have dissolved all consciousness

and solipsisms. But surely they would be guilty of brutalities, of violence, of wars, of innumerable things that I could never understand —

that I could never forgive.

And yet I hope I could be happy

for the happiness they had

and they for mine.