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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.