For a friend who was having a hard time.
It's me;
The lovely one is me.
And dare I seek a substitute,
I sense that what I am
Is free.
It isn't who I thought I was,
It wasn't they said, of course;
It wasn't what I dreaded
Nor it's depths,
Nor what I said, of course;
It hasn't left me waiting,
I'm still staring through my eyes,
Of course;
It isn't any game
Nor taxing tabulation, still explaining.
Nor is it entanglement, a wrangling
Of sordid statement,
Nor is it abandonment,
And least, it's like a leash in taming.
Born in one, and soft in sovereign
State, a satiation to these cravings.
More is what confounds, our callous
Gravity caroused, and lately.
Wading in the mist of what is made
And what awaits, still straining;
Leaning in allay against the frame
Of painted pictures
That the door is still explaining.
Isn't any picture I could paint
Could take a justice to the suchness of its gates,
In relinquishing the finding,
What's in sight, I see
Is a reminding, bright as grace.
It's me;
The lovely one is me, I say.
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