Of the Empirical Self and for Me
(for M.E.)

In my poems there's seldom
any I or you -

you know me, Mary;
you wouldn't expect it of me -

The night here is humid;
there are two of us sitting out
on the bench under the window;

two invisible ghosts
lift glasses of white milk
and drink
and the lamplight
stiffens the white fence opposite.

A tall man passes
with what looks like a black dog.
He stares at the milk, and says
It's nice to be able
to drink a cup of
coffee outside at night...

and vanishes. So -
What kind of a world? Even
love's not often a poem. The night
has to move quickly. Sudden rain.
Thunder bursts across the mountain;
the village goes dark with blown fuses,
and lightning-strokes repeatedly
bang out their own reality-prints
of the same white houses
staring an instant out of the dark.

*

the spacing in this poem is a bit cooler than this but DA doesn't like it, so...oh well.