A Journal Note [poem]


Without coffee,

my morning is


has become my cliche.


To believe her bridge too classical,

she insisted I should know . . .


What was it that I should know

about her,

through her, not her,

She becomes me

in my mind––

I should look at the pictures

painted on Greek vases,

She suggested,

having said that one of her teachers

had said,

and so then

what should I?

The question is to do or not to make

the eye knows

what it sees,

I wonder?


We pause to look

at a variety of vases

among the collection

of Greek pottery

at the Met.


She and I walking together


her profile too classical,


I thought about how

I was supposed to

say I imagined

her having

said to herself

she said that no one

she knows

has her nose,

the line of her profile . . .


beautiful I knew

I saw I thought later,

seeing her seeing

me, I watched her

obliquely, the mirror

has become

motifs falling headlong

into her eyes


for her to arrive having taken

our table

in the corner,

on the banquet . . .

the mirrors at right angles

above us sitting


not across from one another

as all the solipsists

in the room do . . .

something smaller this time,

I imagine holding her

hand playing as we play,

hand in hand,

a stone, into the waves,

I re-collect,

another pebble

I put in my pocket,

what would it mean to be-go,

wverything between . . .

what it says

to be-gone,

to be-come,

to be-have.


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