Jeffrey Hermann

Everything We Make

The second law of thermodynamics says

a person can spend a year learning a decent chord on the guitar

then forget the whole thing—fingers, strings, timing—

in maybe a month. It guarantees that the siding on our homes will dull and give out

Same with our psychic connections, our shoes. Our last words

 

will be a surprise, the sentence completely composed but only half spoken 

But our son once told me clouds must taste like jelly and I said yes

And the sound of you singing backup vocals

on that record you made in college holds qualities to me of forever —

give out how, break into what?

 

There’s a second part of the law I don’t quite understand

about how entropy applies only to closed systems

ones you don’t patch and paint, nourish or scratch behind the ears

And here’s another way I’m a fool: I believe the time I spend

thinking of you is time we spend together too