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For John Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further

by
 Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind,
in the commonplaces of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
outstared me.
And if I tried to give you something else, something outside of myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope.
I tapped my own head; it was a glass, an inverted bowl.
It is a small thing to rage in your own bowl.
At first it was private.
Then it was more than myself; it was you, or your house or your kitchen.
And if you turn away because there is no lesson here I will hold my awkward bowl, with all its cracked stars shining like a complicated lie, and fasten a new skin around it as if I were dressing an orange or a strange sun.
Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
There ought to be something special for someone in this kind of hope.
This is something I would never find in a lovelier place, my dear, although your fear is anyone's fear, like an invisible veil between us all.
.
.
and sometimes in private, my kitchen, your kitchen, my face, your face.

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