And what of you?
When I hold you do I have you?
All your considerations and consignments,
all those social and spiritual alignments,
outlining any composition of you?
When I think of you do I know you?
Every recollection and reconsideration
of gestures made toward enumeration
of all the many feelings felt by you?
I wonder,
must you be beyond anyone’s having?
Each crooked smile and elliptical irony
placing you nearer my heart, but finally
falling far from all actual having?
And what of me?
Do you imagine me as I do?
Seeing images and hearing ideas resembling
the pictures and notions that I am holding
when I imagine me as I do?
It’s a tremulous path of thought, no?
Considering considerations of you and me
and our concealed relations allowing us to be
something to one another—an other—no?
I wonder,
I wonder if the day and the age shape us?
Shape and figure us more than we’d like to admit,
giving us all these words and reasons to outwit
ourselves in the day and the age that shape us?
And, still, what of us?
