What does it mean to see former beauty in the face of one you loved? It will not be any longer in the poetry, even as what we see expands downward into the past, making our view a mountain-view at last, a thousand regrets to stand on, lifting us into the light, as all that was former darkens into light. New! New! All that we knew--- now no longer beautiful. It will no longer fight. The dropping of the rain from what had been a beautiful cloud, the shape of a woman moving, sanctimonious, careful, indifferent beside the crowd--- now less jealous and possessed. You desired her only in private, and she was almost there, the privacy interrupted, unfortunately, by your care, you, almost as bad as the crowd milling and pretending---your mercy, your stare. But the crowd has lost interest; my imagination must now supply the war. If you wish, curiosity can be loud, like the young actor who says his lines badly, too dramatically, the way intimacy sometimes confines. She will have no part of me now. Acting is always troubling, pop songs repetitive, love, little more than etiquette. Your relatives. The stupid trips to Connecticut. There's pleasure. But less beauty now. Large clouds are closer. My poetry is leaving. Exit this way. Here. The world will show you how.
