Surviving Inklings
You lose friends to both
death and unusually lively
withdrawal, as well as give
some up, as anticipated,
to misunderstanding. You
leave those you assured
you would not leave and,
too, people have left
you in silence and without
reason but presumably
because of your intensity,
which you have long heard
from friends, never lovers,
for whom it was the draw.
When you leave you rarely
think about those left, so
perhaps it is like that for
those who leave you:
typically no story, with
every tensile explanation
partial, each narrative
convenient, and changing.
You reserve the secrets
of theirs you remember,
pray occasionally for their
families, and praise silently
some whistle of generosity
you witnessed. You forget
the contours slowly, in
the long second leaving,
neutrality a structure
you learned to glamorize,
the way you have come to
imagine doors as rectangular.
Under limits of the boxy
entry, you think of cities
as grids, describe a bird as
the tint of ink, forgetting
that ink can be any color.
