There is much unsaid, though the edges
of the said so long and so
perversely have
attracted me.
Even now, how
can I say what
torments of mind in animal amount

to my drive to comprehend you? You
who have become my being, my own—
owner than myself... and though Parmenides'
muse is named
for Justice, and insists
no part is more existent than
another, no part less—still there's less of being

in a self—each person sees that being least, his
sense of self relies more on the sixth
than does his sense of anybody else... I see you, I can run

an eye on your leg, look a foot
in your eye— In you I am very advanced:
I see the end of my own inwardness.... But when
I look at me, the second splits, there's an

adjustment, surface slid
in place. I'm facing
forward, fixed, I'm
inside out, or rightside down,
or double-timing, double-faced—

If for a moment, I were simply
visible to me,

I think I'd fall forever, out of love.