March 4, 2005
Poem of the Moment
the first love's most important.
That's very romantic,
but not my experience.
Something was and wasn't there between us,
something went on and went away.
My hands never tremble
when I stumble on silly keepsakes
and a sheaf of letters tied with string--
not even a ribbon.
Our only meeting after years:
the conversation of two chairs
at a chilly table.
still breathe deep inside me.
This one's too short of breath even to sigh.
Yet, just exactly as it is,
it does what the others still can't manage:
not even seen in dreams,
it introduces me to death.
Sigh, "KJ"...summer camp, shared "atomic fire balls" by the side of the lake. A few letters, a few disinterested phonecalls, and that was pretty much that.