It's obvious I will make no one happy.
At first, perhaps, but not finally.
I will expect them to be more than what they are,
but never demand it. The evening star
makes no demands, but I expect, Sara,
you will be a light that's true
and your eye will shine a light,
not absorb light only.
It's obvious without this highest expectation coming true,
insult will be the language
which surfaces. Poetry will hide you.