Theme in Variegation


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.



Wet sands.

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,

The waves.

I see you totter.

You do not stumble as I do

Thinking I want to reach out to you.


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