From the Dead-File (poem)

Dear Jan, as once you husband, but now perennial
lover merely (though on some distant urn
of a more distant yearning, we still bend
to love's learning,

I suppose), I propose to you a new acquaintance.
But first, let me begin to try to express
who it is I am, what I've become.  Pure chance,
you see, has pressed

and shaped the man whom you once knew and loved
so well (though, rest assured, the priapic wand
upon which you once danced, and dallied above,
still stirs to its longings,

now and then) beyond his own knowing self,
though perhaps you would know me just as well--
bah! but enough of that; the thing-in-itself
can always tell

the ultimate lie.  What I really want to say
seems impossible to mouth (though wanting for words
cannot still the urge to paint you some day
silently flourishing

for you and me, and Grace, too) without you
to cling to as it's said.  All that's left me
is the silver stud for my ear, the loud, blue,
Grateful Dead T-

shirt, a black beret, and the squinting picture
of an angry baby.  (Such frail, frail props
to hang a heart upon, this not of course to bitch
about the loss

of so much else.)  I cherish them still, for all
they speak to me in Braille.  Bah! no thimbleful
of wit can recall our one summer's slow thrall,
can it?  Yours, Michael

ps  I would propose to you a new acquaintance, love.