- in imitation of Tennyson -
The last image of you is the one
with which I’m forever laden.
But the last is always changing
and has been since you were a maiden.
Or, better said, since you were much younger
than either of us are now –
before a thousand concerns and such
had deepened these ruts on my brow;
before you’d developed those sundry ways
of steering my wit around,
only to find itself on the shoals
of higher wisdom run aground;
before I had yet identified
my truly circuitous path
as you bear along with me through life
with your pace of unmuddled math,
looking back at me looking back at you
to catch your most recent Bild
and append it to those pages of you
with which my desire is filled.
[Previous: Our Spinning Feast]
[Next: Frickin' Freight]