to test my viscous ink in fevered frenzy's eloquent extreme
and, letting the ink douse upon the porous surface of the page
some prognostic path's unfortunate magic, obstruct the way . . .
she didn't want my pen and page to blow each possibility
off her ecstatic skin, didn't want her grace or her ability
to focus her in fitted frame, tamed, tied down with a word,
the symbol making its referent untrue, making itself absurd . . .
she didn't command my hand explore each vicissitude of heart
and her, play out in print each possible end before we start,
nor find in her my muse, idol of my idle pen and voice,
but to find my will in working word and at the job rejoice . . .
she didn't bid me trace her chase in verse but had to know
i would, who instructed once in love ever teaches letting go.
she'd no idea that her motions' potent potions
still lived in my emotions, nor did i, 'cross
feared years, oaths and oceans, shame and tears,
yet, there she sits, and here i lie.
