The Brooklyn Rail

Perhaps even dangerous to recognize 
               the inadequacy of our attempts 
at communication To still Be present 
               with another person Sometimes 
all we are able to offer Attempted
               mimicry Attempted precision Even
nearing the end with no evidence Nothing
               on the page to indicate The page
divided The rhythm breaking off 
               With no evidence to follow No means 
of saying how it was we arrived here 
               In late spring perhaps when jasmine 
begins to bloom Something unlike 
               or outside of normative daily 
experience Forgive me Outside of the life
               we know This perhaps a place for soul
to slip in Futile enterprises This a place 
               for potential tightening or expansion. 

I find certain facts more difficult 
             than others, how minus seems more 
precise than plus or the balanced equations
             I can’t understand without seeing or
imagining, imagining 
             signs, which I always forget aren’t marks, 
forget their names or, beginning to write, 
             forget how each poem once looked 
like the final and only poem 
             I could ever write, like the former
cherished face behind a veil. When I recall
             the face alone, patterns or the sea then 
rise up and hide it. As though that part 
             of me perished, had to be born
again before returning, but 
             I couldn’t return. Night,
when called to paint,
             I like to think the images 
behave like language, behave 
             the same, are entangled, but 
I know this is almost never the case.
             It was like exiting water, nearing a cliff
from below. The down-sloping wind. I watched 
             that beauty walk out of my life. A flash 
of red climbed the stair and was gone.