Five Conjectures

1. If and I do I ask of you more than you want to give then you will know me that I can’t sit still loving you as I would want to love you if and you don’t you wanted what I have to give. 2. I saw you wouldn’t move. I saw you proud and a question moved between us. If you didn’t see the question then you might have at any point told me the answer I couldn’t ask. 3. Maybe you thought that I’m a river and you can’t swim. Maybe a desert thirsty and you have only enough water perfect in your balance happy without me. 4. If I were writing this to you I’d want to say I love you after quiet deliberation to explain why I shouldn’t say it, that maybe you aren’t concerned felt nothing have no time can’t see my quiet turning my gentle unknowing strength, that maybe I am boring impractical, that I want to argue bluntly over subtle points delicate matters. I want to brag or to kiss your foot if either would help. If I were writing this to you I’d say that I want to help you love me, to love you. 5. Tell me how I hurt myself, why I can’t realize the sky down my throat, and why birds pretend they don’t see me.

October 1971