I was always waiting to
stumble or be pushed—
but that is not how one
falls in love, or not in America
remember the lantern? on the
tortoise, I mean (I know you
read it, same as me), and it
went over the face of the waters
which were there before everything
I think about that sometimes,
wondering what words might
mean to you when they are
the same words to me
and did you ever read anything
that I wrote and wonder
whether it was meant for you?
somehow I don't think so,
though I was always afraid
you had, and would know
me, through and through
but the truth is that I
never work at anything
with care so you could
see where I came away with
hurts, or where my hands
might leave a mark
I was never made for recollection,
dear Socrates, and you will not
find your truth in me
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