Am sitting in the darkened sitting-room;
fam about to get up;
the lights on the tree and around the TV splin-
ring the embracing silence: and I so wish
we’d married that day I begged
you, and that ring I now carried was
a sign of love eternal, burnished and
burning like flames no longer
And after a year of growing
and mastering, I am good.
Good as I never was.
Good as I was never allowed to be.
Good as I never allowed myself to be.
Because even where everything
I do is predictable and anticipated
and known and pre-seen, in a
Newtonian way of scientific inaccuracy
I demand and
my choices: oh, and yes, you may be true in
algorithmic intent, and analytical
sentiment, and in this it’s clear that
remains your genius of
relative election, but my pretension is simply
another: Newton gives me
an illusion of being –
and seeing this illusion, a
ing]} of people and places
and sex and six and half a dozen
oozing of seconds and thirds
and gentle twosomes, and
rough, and some quite lesser, and guess
whom I shall kiss the next –
and so my genius of such
mentioned here and there
and most somewheres,
will – for me – Newton be: for
hear me, you know you
don’t have to be right
to be happy.
You just need to be happy.