A lesson, taut well …

We speak to

gather small

talk before we touch big: but

then

it becomes over-

baring: public-

placed always: I begin

to resist.

“Why not at home?”

I say, truly puzzled.

“Because you say dumb things

only when

we find

ourselves

in visible places like

these …”

And!!!

“Ssshhhhhhhhh,” I hiss lowly,

like the snake

I am not.

But that’s what I got:

that’s precisely the prob:

the prob out of hand –

and to hand – is the fact

that together and gathered

around one black pot

as the cauldron of truth

begins to eff-

er[r]-

ves

ce,

we discover we’re too different

from the selves we once

were, before we slid gently into

being

that gathered.

And I guess it’s unreeling, with

terrible feeling; and I guess

it’s just hurting so

much on all sides.

And maybe the kids, who I judged

to be adults, inside are just

kids,

like you and me too,

who feel the fear and the

quiet terror that

change of irre-

vocable nature, when spoken

does certainly bring and ring out,

and tingle and grapple with

the memories we felt,

which suddenly connect all the dots

that were hidden

by years of un-

felt lives and loves

velvet-

ed

underground by

our very ex-

i-

stances.

And if eventually it happens, and

love for me does return,

I wonder how poss it might be

to argue convincingly

that nothing was planned;

it was all so quite random;

the accuracy of the cupid

had no part to play.

For the dots will connect up

whatever we say.

The dots will connect up

the day you discover

the reality of my writing: the truths

and thoughts and forms

and shapes

and concepts that make me

exactly what I am:

[ex-

act-

{ly]ing} what – out of the

real love I’ve been – I am must become;

I am must survive;

I am must, indeed, strive to fight – in the

presence and gifts

of her reality – to be thrive-

d,

to be contrive-

d,

and to be derive-

d

… as pure chemistry!

 

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