If faced squarely,
is this triangle’s third side
on which chatter and lurk your old loves—
the potheads and Grace Kelley dead ringers,
the tall rich sylphs, doctor-players,
mope rockers and philosopher queens—
something I’d see crushed?
If they vanished, would the line become
a newly firm base we viewed
as we flew like a flexible hinge
or carefree bird to wide skies?
Or would we collapse on the instant
like a tent in trouble,
the harem in hindsight the very haven
I’d thought I sought, the smiles that plagued me
the pain that kept the passion going?
I who was once good at math
a hop and a jump from your house
come up short, madly circle the question
but despair of an answer, hoping at least
the fact that a triangle
is percussive but also tuneful
will make the music of the brooding sweeter.
Copyright © Persea Books 2010
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.