In my poetry I use every name except yours—
which, only to me, seems to be you. Others
have their own names to reference
and will penetrate with empathy
my poetry study, for that is what I
as a poet do—conduct this poor poetry study
with test subjects hidden from view,
testing them for their empathy
and responses to various types of imagery
and yet the one I care about is you.
I’m inclined to make imagery less important
since a scene depicted in prose will do
as a scene. Empathy I value even less
for poetry needs a certain amount of distress.
A straight line from subject to sympathy
is not the proper project of poems; hate,
even in the poet, for the sake of love’s reader,
might be something, to which a neutral reader,
enjoying cool irony, can relate.
I find it good practice to imagine one’s reader
as not sophisticated—and needing none,
or sophisticated—and needing less.
But ultimately
I like to keep coming back to you—
not a name, not imagery, not empathy,
but somehow, always and mysteriously true.
I want to see women running,
in sports, in myth—it makes me emotional,
I don’t know why.
You might reluctantly run to the station—
oh God what is it about you running?—
I’m the only one crazy enough to cry.