What I hope (when I hope) is that we’ll see each other again,
but you would never accept a voice like mine—you said I could have
anything I wanted, but I just couldn’t say it out loud.
There were (for example) months when I seemed only to displease,
frustrate, disappoint you—; so much light pulled off course. What month
was that in? What did you want from me? Actually, you said, Love, for you
—it’s like a religion. It’s terrifying. No one will ever want to sleep with you.
How one walks through the world. Endless small adjustments of balance,
filled with endless distances (Longing, they say), the shifting weights
of beautiful things, the objects you busily name. One must have a mind of winter
to regard the frost; and have been cold a long time between the ribs
or where the dusk waits. It is a grace to be a watcher on such a scene,
from where even watching is an anachronism. It existed. It existed
[on a vine that grows up trees]. Perhaps there is a life here of not being afraid
of your own heart beating, for I too am half-spun
wishing you all the aloneness you hunger for. So much light
pulled off course. For even the Gods misuse the unfolding blue. Who’d believe
that what ends here. Continues. So much light. It’s senseless—useless
-ness is the last form love takes and yesterday
is gone. And I’ve had nothing to do with it.
In order of appearance: Bidart, Gluck, Siken, Bidart, F. Wright, Dimitrov, Siken, Scarry, Hass, Scarry, Gluck, Stevens, Dimitrov, C. Wright, Graham, Bidart, Sappho [trans. Carson], Mayer, Griffiths, F. Wright, Sealey, Dimitrov, F. Wright, Dimitrov, Graham, Kahn