And even so, on your sincere perspicacity 

On being free of all of those who think they know what’s best for me:

that’s what this tale is now about.

On being free of all of those who think they know what’s best for me:

that’s what I need and want of life; no lives, no friends who’ll break their bonds and disappoint with fascist right.

On being free of all of those who think they know what’s best for me:

and I once thought, Claire, that differently of you, so brightly burnished I’d believed your love for me, until yesterday night did disabuse me worse, and this blind I was to clear realities: you also calculate you know what’s best for me.

On being free of all of those who think they know what’s best for me:

and in truth there is no person I have met or known, or been with or saddened or ever enjoyed, who has not finally said to me they actually know what’s best for me.

On being free of all of those who think they know what’s best for me:

and when I thought, hurt, saw and discovered yesterday afternoon – so late in rhyme that time then stood frozen – that all you’d done, still my dearest C, was to decide to show me – and not to tell – the truth you felt I deserved to experience … and so when that mad, bad, sad old moment struck me so tough, and rose like a thorn to injure and be-cry me and be-die me and all that yous had designed me, how else did you ever think this would end?  

How ever did you think I’d just give in?

On being free of all of those who think they know what’s best for me:

and after almost thirty years of loveless marriage, and after almost fourteen years of drugged existence, and after thirteen years of your mother’s cruelty, and after not even one year of your beautiful bewilderingness, a fourth woman in my life now abandons me to their well-rehearsed, their well-wrought fate.

On being free of all of those who think they know what’s best for me:

and yet, despite the pain so real you made about my person true, about and around my struggling core, like rocks of hard-punched solar system, like meteorites hitting violent virgin wood, if actually again I met your face, and saw your mind through the eyes which Bloomsday clearly made me race so happy, and had the opportunity to really say all good, and might and may and will and would, I’d still – even so – give us all the beautiful benefit of doubt we beautifully all needed.

Because despite all the mistakes you’ve gone and made about me, I do love – this is true! – the honest flaws I see in every step and move you assuredly make and often do break: 

in this, then,

your 

sincere

perspicacity.

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