Friday night I was writing and
the reading of your words intimate
yet of no import and not for me;
speaking in esoteric depth
with m. about transcendence
and bliss so far from his serious
like death views of “in love”;
sending a silent missive to d.
that there should be more
Shakespeare in the world –
desperately, desperately more
knowing he is lost to me,
doubting his reply and move on
having lost something to that lover,
my own rule broke – feeling
something missing perhaps
even the semblance of friendship.
Your laugh and manner like his
yet your own broad smile
and manner draw me to glances;
are young enough not to keep
but old enough not to teach?
