Perhaps we are only able to love
when the other is farthest removed from our humanity:
guileless, worshipful, artless, an acquiescing narrative
whose plot we reign as partial gods, to appoint at will –
pulling and tugging at invisible puppet strings
with peculiar condescension, pride and conceit,
marvelling at the multitudes of even and uneven
harmonics on a tune played courtly on a pianoforte.
Such is the role when we play as master;
Still I pray you acquit of this particular cruelty,
corded like cuffs to disguise an unhappy abrasion,
lean into this unsatisfactory appeal:
draw a drop cloth over this vexing circumstance.
I tire of this inconsiderate gut undulating into
singular silence. My countenance is wan.
Though you are the most honorable estate,
enterprised reverently and with unrefuted deference,
I am but the wild pastures that nest your gardens,
conplementary, adjacent to your stern humanity,
not farthest removed
but just as worthy —
Though you may never perceive anything extraordinary in them,
these wildlings whoop and dance in the ink of twilight,
undeceiving and wanting like these words —
these words, so carefully put together,
were once carefully purloined from the wretchedness of others.
