I guess this is progress—
finally, I've begun
to wonder
what I'm supposed to do
with your pictures.
these years, your face
still looks the same to me,
whereas I'd swear
up and down, I'm so
very much older
even than I appear
in the mirror
at this moment—
old enough, at any
rate, at least
to understand
how the pieces of us
which might still interact
are far
from the proper or
obvious suspects.
It's a bit like
how the instrument
which is responsible
for singing
is itself, in practice,
mysteriously silent—
and the similar
mechanism by which
the song's witness
is compelled to linger
there and listen,
while equally
primitive, is completely
invisible—or at least
remains very
ingeniously hidden.
