The plot inside the plot
is like my life—and yet not.
It resembles my thoughts,
which are statements of mine;
the subject, you and I as one;
the poem’s title its first line,
a border crossed immediately
into friendly poetry—
the improvement of poetry
the rhetorical fall
down the page—easily, as from gravity.
But the poem isn’t all—
it exists to a great degree
because the inside of it is something
I’m unable to see—
your views, the view of you,
racing around in its fate—
my plot following after it,
the primary plot,
burdened by its inner plot,
too thoughtful and too late.