You are a generous spirit and a riddle of being.
What I most feel behind the protective incurve
of my chest around the fears carried since childhood
is that I am no good at riddles. I don’t think
I can solve anything. Now, trying is desperation
and acceptance is art: no essays: only truth.
I am the distance between dying fields and floods.
I am a separation of two tragic ends or between two
or seven or seventy or every realizable possibility
of eviction: conviction: no ark meets the dark
of so strange a synthesis: only an elegy.
My life sings this song. You seem, however, to glide
upon the gravity of this under-melody. I, an unnecessary
excess of unrealized riddles; you, a necessary outcurve
of uncommon ribs, away from all fears: no loss, no pleading:
only self-excused and satisfied: all art: all truth.
And yet you are now a riddled poem and elegiac spirit.