As a treeman descending a fir, with chainsaw
uncreating it by lengths,
composes the hole in space which he climbs down,
so I am the treeman and you
the needle-perfect absence of the fir.
Arty and not true. In my bunk,
in metaphysical conceit I reach
your latitude. I anchor off yr coves,
I land, I take yr breasts’ unleavened loaves
in my two hands. I eat my solitude.
Satisfying, still not true.
You are blue letters doused with Shalimar.
You are the welcoming warmth I write into.
You are the suede, Wisconsin jacket I put on
in spite of regulations. As far from you
as it is possible on earth to be,
I see you in your sweater that’s soft brown,
teaching piano in Madison.
You are, in this blossoming
of incompletion, where I fail to be.