I often wonder if the reason I
stay with you is my own selfish
need to tidy, to stable those old
compulsions into straight lines.
I remember the time you came
over for tea and your deck shoes
couldn't hold the water anymore,
and you cried there at my kitchen
table. Was it sadness I felt at your
tears, or pleasure in those old
convulsions, knowing you had self
destructed your way back to me?
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A lightness of touch: Poetry in the face of pessimism.
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