Tuesday, September 11, 2007



I can’t believe I really said those things:
“If we are still together when spring comes,
I’ll have to find some work that’s close to you.

I won’t survive much longer far apart.”

You answer
and at once my poor heart sings—
“Of course we’ll be together.” Though all thumbs,

I try to find some words, and land a few:

Your certainty is balm to that “poor heart.”

I’ve said I’d move. God. All that moving brings

Now rises to my sight—I grasp at crumbs:

I’ve moved and lost, but this move might renew

Me, prove at last those other moves were smart.

All well and good, but saying it out loud

Like that makes me more terrified than proud.


I leave my mother and my children, thoughtless;
I ask myself again: what can this mean?

My author leaves my story unbound, plotless—

My play turns on one act and every scene

Repeats the same old tale, and sends me spinning:

La Ronde
for two performers.

I’m too green
To know if this is truly the beginning

Of something fine and good and bound to last—

Or whether my desire, my need, is winning
And every other loyalty’s surpassed.

Thanksgiving’s just a day like any other;

It’s sure to come again next year, and fast.

I cleave unto that flesh that makes me one:
That war is lost; the tale ends as begun.


It’s not like I’m abandoning my kids
By flying far away to be with you;

Your friends and family also make their bids

For my attention, my concern, and do

Exert no small attraction as the side

Of you, sweet moon, I have as yet to view.

So I’m along for far more than the ride;

I’m there to get to know the souls that made

Your soul my doom, your heart my prize and pride.

I can’t claim I’m completely unafraid—

In recent years, I’ve hit too many skids—

But I know some commands must be obeyed.

You lead me blind, and I am well content;

I think the week could not be better spent.

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