I’m not going to make you
leave the poem.
Selfishly, I must admit, part of me clings
to the remains of objectivity,
or at least the subjectivity of a guy with a name
like Walt or William or one of those names
that is all first names. But here you are
in the poem, though I have redacted
your name for privacy.
Redacted, Redacted, Redacted — now I can say it all I want.
If you’d listened you’d know
I only ever promised
difficulty. Haven’t you seen
how hard I fight for each poem?
Nothing can be expected from Paris.
All they have given us rots.
You told me once you often think unsummarizable things,
and I didn’t know what you meant,
and I loved you for it.
You, my algo diferente.
Once, I dreamed
of a common language.
Somehow, we were most honest
when language split open.
The closest I can offer you
to sense is couplets.
Can’t you hear the cicadas
pleading? They too
have loved this mutilated world. All I want
is to see you again tomorrow.