Chilled into September
I completed my education.
Autodidact
of sorrows,
Arranging
my systemsIn exquisite precision
I
subjected them
To
the test of tears.They crumbled. In the ruins,
Half-sought,
half-forgotten,
Was
a word shattered like aChina cup. The word was Love.
For
years, shunning
The
basking crowd,I sought for the Good,
Read
books and made notes.
A
woman – my wife – Brought me food and listened:
My
chin chafing my collar
I
informed her of the natureOf things. As she closed the door
Her
eyes were awash.
I
considered the facts brieflyBut could find no explanation.
One
night I started:
I
was reading SpinozaWhen a thought like a knife
Turned
in my brain,
“How
hatefulIs an abstract love.”
Longing
for her hand,
The
shy hiss of her breath,I ran downstairs
But
she had gone.
She
had left a note –“I, too, am human” –
Her
suitcase had scuffed the hallway.
Collapsed
on the stairs,Shaking the banisters like a child,
My
tears melted her words.
Overhead,
swollen like tumours,My books were suave, replete.
====================
©
August 1983