More to be, what I repeat is not what I am.
What I think I become is not what I become . . .
Not to be is not to be–whenever I am, I am not . . . what I become.
Words alone are nearly alone,
What we say we have said, all saying, repeating,
I know nothing given but what is received.
Leaves in the fall fall–
Another kind of tautology–
Not exactly how mops mop,
Truth beseeches; lies do not.
Lying is action;
Truth is being.
I imagine myself another man;
I imagine you the same woman.
It does not work out.
I feel guilty.
I see me the same–I . . .
I imagine you another other than who you have been,
Who or what you could become–
What is it I say about how we are?
In the next wake, I hold you up.
I stand behind you.
A piece of colored glass, wave-worn smooth,
Cracked shells are tiny,
All of them spread in a wide array on the rough sand of the surf beneath my feet.
I skip another stone.
You are, I say;
Therefore, I am.
Your feet disappearing in the soft of the sands
Below the tumult of the surf.
I sink as I try to stand upright.
I watch you watching them,
I see you totter.
You do not stumble as I do
Thinking I want to reach out to you.