Her attractive pain, already I feel better confessing it when
relieved, hurried, careless, moving out of the woods I am seized,
those last low branches catch at my cloak. The wood of her pain, realer than freedom, as if by an effort of will detains me.
|Her low quiet frown at my failure to be there I
fancy, I picture
smoothing her brow, her spirit relaxing. Then longing and
feelings of What am I doing here? overcome me, what is my
but a failure to be there? Time and again love,
gave up waiting by the clock and went away
or so I've flattered myself into believing. A bad mood maw gapes like gray suburbia in me on these occasions when I think to blame myself.
Her attractive pain my better judgement shaming as bourgeois.
Her attractive pain regularly busts a dam upriver
and floods my flat places, disrupting all commerce and living,
my mismanagement of every resource I possess makes it inevitable that I should spend every weekend afloat
on the upended hull of an unfinished ark
a phenomenon to be awaited, as DuBois called the appearance of the Negro criminal.