The trouble between
the two of us is—you
have always been
easy to locate.
Every day you change
by exactly the same increment;
a distinctive piece
of bowed cello music
at a consistently rolling tempo.
Each month and year of you
beautifully congruent
as the wavering
of the seasons. To cut it short:
you are the climate,
not the weather.
But I'm in a different spot
on a different line;
duplicitous in my constancy
and erratic in my stubborn
stabs at simplicity—
I don't even have an atmosphere.
I'm more like a bonfire
raging on the surface of
the daytime moon—not hard at all
to picture in theory,
but impossible
to get out there
and actually find.
