Tonight is all knives in dark wine,
Bittersweet intensities, rosemary losses.
I ask, what comprises our animal, which motives
Move us? That which finds reward
Through hotly fevered impulses
And succeeds through organized violence.

Heroes, even courageous men, are no better,
For our champions are, and will always be, only
Those whom we kneel before or who we recognize
As put together with more vigor and attention
Than our own selves. Our heroes are those
Whom we admire for their perfections of us.

But why, then, do we search for what burns us
Only to hold that close? For if we are not
Admiring that which offends most, we are seeking
That which has every power to destroy. Rilke was
Right, for every angel is terrifying, and
Our characters always seek new pains and fires
On which to forge identity. And of course
Nobody truly accepts incongruity,
For our disorganizations are mostly
Wayward symbols of misplaced care.

...

But how can we say this? That every person is not
Perfect in their fraternity with all others
Who are subject to likewise fears and are composed from
Each identical matter as a next? All men are alone together.
Yet will there never be any remedy to this
Besides mere love and its hope-bearing trust?
Our souls each echo with the same haunting songs,
And misplace all desire through humble kindnesses.

...

Where was she then, this Helenic fantasy
Which rooted itself through all my mornings
And left me yearning? Fantasies are cruel
In the same way that all lies are monsters,
Only because they postpone inevitable famine.

Love, I am with you forever, and were it beneath my own
Tangible understanding, I would have no lies between us.
Alas that every word, I fear, is stagnant, and that we can only
Guess at each others meanings much as deaf men
Grope for sounds or language. Is not it a miracle,
This possibility that anybody might feel things,
Might sense and know as perfectly as we do?

So where springs our hopes? Towards which bosom
Does our patience pull itself? These things,
Which grant us all endurance are the stuff of beauty,
Sharing lodgings with desire.
Yet what is left to be done? We must
Cast from our bodies the sad songs they harbor
Into unconditional, silent airs.
All out, out until we are empty of our longings,
Rid of our discarded memories. We must pull ourselves
Towards the wholly heroic spirit
Which imbues us with direction
And lies in perfectly ballasted care.

-4/10/2001