Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
I have to think what division, in this case, means,
As I am both divided in my mind, and divided from you.
That will be the first part of my poem,
But shall I divide up my poem as Dante taught me to do?
Does division mean I add you hopelessly,
Beginning with one, but never reaching two?
In my mind, I see pictures and pictures of you;
My desire makes images! But they do not equal you;
Infinite reproductions, every picture dividing you
Into more and more parts,
As desire, which sees, makes you crowded—and less.
We should be two. But we are two divided hearts,
Never touching. Division subtracts the more it adds,
And adds only by subtracting. I could bless
You a million times, but if you cannot hear,
Being divided from me,
What good is my poetry?
All these words are nothing, dear.
