I hadn't planned on this: to watch you in the rearview
for no better reason than simply something lacking.

You might not be surprised to learn my guiltless capabilities.
This is not to say guileless. That is something else,
and I lost weight, too. It must be December or else
a most unnourishing diet, devouring what does not feed. Possibly,
leaving the fields was an unclean move, disorienting;
now to seek benchmarks, way-stations, maps of (typically)
wrong places, feigning knowledge of the path.

My metaphor fails. It cannot carry,
for what can describe a rocket launch, a shriek,
a smoky tornado, and deafening silence?
No vehicle is large enough.

But there's more. There always is.
The reader must know what now, yes? What next?
He cannot, for we do not. After six months we meet,
I transformed into who you'd framed around me,
finally what you'd been seeking.
The long-desired change catches your words

like a gasp. Either way I lose. Why not
a knock-down drag-out fight and then flee
in bitter despair, laying blame, glad for the end?
A good reason eludes, leaving only
puzzlement about what might be missing.

This does not make for good poetry. I tell too much.
I always tell too much or else exclude my reader.
I am a seesaw, never balancing
but always swinging wildly. This is important:
if you see me, recognize imbalance.

What do your philosophers make of that? If you take a seesaw
and add a need for love, is it something you'd want
in your backyard, to straddle on dreamy evenings
to watch the stars and think?

Perhaps I have found my vehicle. It tips easily
and goes nowhere except up and down, and not even that
predictably or all at once. Now the tenor should step in
and send his light male voice, vocal coffee with cream and sugar,
lyricizing the last of our truth that we hold back.
Perhaps we should join him on the chorus.

Copyright © 2000 President and Fellows of Harvard College.
All rights reserved. Comments. Last modified Fri, Oct 6, 2000.