We move beneath that infinite shadow,
always. And it does not suffice as
atonement. We deceive those closest,
acquiescing to desire. We are craven
and we are vain. Even those of us who
whisper poetry in our sleep. Love, we
find, is not enough to ease the
perpetual absence, whittled from us
by the societal masonry.

You have discovered this. The knowledge
is in your careful gait. The void in
your smile; pleasure not a fructuous
seed. You and I are now peers. But
despite this, we do not owe one another
a single thing.

You are meandering by yourself in the
sumptuous cataract of a dying afternoon,
and for a few buoyant steps you seem
unburdened, without history. You are
pulling leaves from a tree, blithely,
free of symbolism. I would like to
give you something, a few honest words,
maybe a line, so you remember that not
all creation precipitates loss:

in solitude, you radiate,
and this radiance sustains me,
unexpectedly,
through evening.