I wish I did not think so much.
Thinking makes me afraid.
But on the other hand—
There is sun. And there is shade.
And really, what does thinking do
About the dark, the sound of breathing, you?
It’s not thinking’s fault. If there’s a crippled, tortured, natural, mess—
The pain is not from thinking more;
The fault lies with thinking less.
Thinking manifests itself in expertise,
Which is the only thing we adore:
The face, calm, the ball hit, the word found, in a breeze.
Philosophy makes thought plunge ahead
Into thinking we usually associate with dread:
The reason we die, the reason we think.
Let’s meet for dinner, let’s have a drink.
Let’s not philosophize tonight.
Let’s put all thoughts about thoughts out of sight!
But that will not help. Thinking about
Thinking is poetry. Love the fruit of all doubt.
Love and poetry, the end of thinking!
(Sure, let’s have a drink, tonight.
Will it be orange or blue?
See, I see thought catching up to you.)
Thinking will be about thinking,
That’s what thought is, in the end.
Do you love me? Do you think me? Are you thinking
What kind of card, what kind of kiss, what kind of word, what kind of poem, you will send?
Thinking. Not thinking. Thinking. Thinking is our fate.
Thinking. Even though you think it is late.