Yesterday I wanted tospeak of it, that sense abovethe others to meimportant because all
that I know derivesfrom what it teaches me.Today, what is it thatis finally so helpless,
different, despairs of its ownstatement, wants toturn away, endlesslyto turn away.
If the moon did not …no, if you did notI wouldn’t either, butwhat would I not
do, what prevention, whatthing so quickly stopped.That is love yesterdayor tomorrow, not
now. Can I eatwhat you give me. Ihave not earned it. MustI think of everything
as earned. Now love alsobecomes a reward soremote from me I haveonly made it with my mind.
Here is tedium,despair, a painfulsense of isolation andwhimsical if pompous
self-regard. But that imageis only of the mind’svague structure, vague to mebecause it is my own.
Love, what do I thinkto say. I cannot say it.What have you become to ask,what have I made you into,
companion, good company,crossed legs with skirt, orsoft body underthe bones of the bed.
Nothing says anythingbut that which it wisheswould come true, fearswhat else might happen in
some other place, someother time not this one.A voice in my place, anecho of that only in yours.
Let me stumble intonot the confession butthe obsession I begin withnow. For you
also (also)some time beyond place, orplace beyond time, nomind left to
say anything at all,that face gone, now.Into the company of loveit all returns.