Even if I could finally utter Truth,
It would only make the distance between us
Be felt less vaguely.
Intimacy doesn’t reside
In memories or ideas
And you can’t shepherd it in
On the back of experience
Any more than I could take you upon myself
And ferry you across the banks of tragedy.
When has loneliness ever been absolved?
Only when your life was drowned out
In the silence at the end of a poem,
Or in the simplicity of a wild animal;
In the cool grip
Of stone beneath you.
Or you hung in stillness
From the fingers of a loved one
Like a bridge suspended by cables.
You shared a fragile tree’s rising
Or the colorless twilight breeze
Now share those things with me.
Be with me—silent, and yet more certain
Than the most profound conviction.
Let us read together from the book of empty lines.