To Claire

If I was able to choose you

I’d choose you without doubt.

But it’s not my place to

choose without

first discovering if withering

gazes would hurt your desire to

be sired by my soul, and my

whole and my heart: that heart

which I wear unavoidably

on sleeve: the sleeve of the man

who bears witness to his

self.

 

And if I were to propose a future

together, even if little

by little this together did

gather to its-

self and moistness and mostness

out there, and closeness

held tight,

and its insides and

outsides and lonesides and

bewilderedsides, and happysides

and snatchedsides and

sides of love given and taken,

and unjailed from the two women

who perplexed me with their

curious unsaidednesses

equal, un-

equalled anywhere,

and all so

many doings and to-ings and

fro-ings, and yet after I felt

like Sherlock between

rock and the hardest

object I’d ever met in my strife and

my lover and these others

who limited me mad,

an angel like you – not

avenging nor pleasant – but real and

royal and loyal and determined

took my sense and

sensibility quite away from my

being: and on the 16th of June

this wonderful year, one

day beyond day of

bewildering flight, I fell

utterly in love with

a person I hardly could know.

 

And that person was you, and it was a

foolish thing to do, and I was

utterly unable to put anything

right.

And yet inside and outside the crevices

of your body and the mind I detected

like Holme[{s]-

ing pigeon}, unblinded by peace,

and the unceasing amusement which

seeped as it did from your eyes and

your glory voice, and the chips you

consumed, and the natter and

chatter and tatter and

toeing: but going even further, what

I really should’ve said was

that in no way are you

the W[h]atson of any pair we

might make, but rather – quite

clearly –  the person I would die for: the

person I’d detect and rectify and

never lie to, and if I did, we’d laugh

in the aftermath, and forgive though

never forget, and the Irish of your

voice and your choice and

your temperament, and the ingenuity

and the wilderness of not knowing

when or quite how you

are what you

are and what you

do to me, so.

 

So if this poem falls on the deafest

of ears, the tragedy will

be mine, but

in a way kinda yours; yours just

as bad.

For although it’ll be madder than

mad might suppose, the woes

of not attempting far outweigh any

goes, left ungone and undone

and unseen by two

people, so weird as the

people we might be.

 

And in my weirdness I am quite a kind

man.

And as I only have realised this

last night and all, there’s

still a fight and way to go, and still

a fall I’ll

fall.

And whilst I am unable to

guarantee life, what

I am asking you today is to proceed

on some journey where a

destination’s

unclear, but where the moments

enjoyed will be better than

ever the either

ever enjoyed with anyone

ever …

… at all!

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