You feel as much as I
And we might as well confess feeling is the highest thing we can be.
So while I see you waiting there
In your coat, in line, pardon me if I stare.
It’s a poet’s stare. Nothing else is really there
But delicate feeling.
Now I’m staring at the ceiling.
You are wholly different from me,
From a different place arrived, and different places left,
So that by every possible measure my knowledge of you is bereft.
You feel as much as me.
That’s all I know, or feel, or see.
I’m stupid. That’s me.
You may be anguished at how stupid everything seems.
But nothing is, but what you feel.
Nothing else is: neither substances, nor accomplishment, nor dreams.
I see you. You’re a wall.
And my worst nightmare is that you don’t feel anything at all.