I admit I got a little crazy. I'd drunk
from the fount of your affection and wanted to go
on drinking. In my uncomprehending funk,
I badgered you with words. You who know
Krishnamurti's secret-- "I don't mind
what happens." You had your choice once. Die
or find another purchase. So while I complained,
you remained speechless as the sky.
What did I hope for with all my analysis?
You are as you are, and I am overthrown
by the inarticulate realities I miss.
I should have trumped your silence with my own.
But a poet's tongue never will be still.
So take my gift of words for good or ill.