notebook (poem, untitled): circa 1987

The paradox is
Is that if the truth is imagined
All things false that folloow
Are like images distorted by snowy mists
A poison in me that has to get out
Of this individuality
But, I am confused
What you told me of sorrow
Does not demand my solitude
In your graces after thought
Time spells out your name indefinably
And I am tortured
My pain flies out like gulls
Fleeing choppy waves
And this is a caress
Behind my gentle hand
Lies aangry schoolteacher
Demanding silence