I Am Not One Of Those Who

And This Tenderness Was Not Like That Which A Certain Poet At The Beginning Of The Century Called True And, For Some Reason, Quiet. No, Not At All— It Rang Out, Like The First Waterfall, It Crunched Like The Crust Of Bluish Ice And It Prayed With A Swanlike Voice, And It Broke Down Right Before Our Eyes.

The Word Dropped Like A Stone On My Still Living Breast. Confess: I Was Prepared, Am Somehow Ready For The Test.

The Triumphs Of A Mysterious Non-meeting Are Desolate Ones; Unspoken Phrases, Silent Words.

The Whole Time I Was Hoping My Silence Would Fit Yours And Exclamation Marks Would Gently Float Across Time And Space So That Boundaries Would Be Crossed; The Whole Time I Was Praying You Would Read My Eyes And Understand What I Was Never Able To Understand. See, We Were Never About Butterflies. We’ve Always Been About Burning Stars. All About Us Is Unearthly And Radiant.

Your Voice Is Wild And Simple. You Are Untranslatable Into Any One Tongue.