Sometimes you overhear them discussing it:
the truth—that thing I thought I was telling.
What could it have been that I said?
To be more or less like other men and women
and then to not be at all—it’s
like writing a book that is both beautiful and disgusting.
Because we can’t do it now. Yet this space
between me and what I had to say
is inspiring. There’s a freshness
to the air; the crowds on Fifth Avenue
are pertinent, and the days up ahead,
still formless, unseen.
To be more or less unravelling
one’s own kindness, noting
the look on other’s faces, why
that’s the ticket. It is all the expression
of today, and you know how we keep an eye on
today. It left on a speeding ship.
March 7, 1991