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It would be -- it is -- it's wonderful to be loved by thousands -- what am I saying, by millions -- by everybody. If only the affair did not end in mutual recrimination and love shimmering away into glare, what one did in the lasting brightness burn, charring the mind with shame, and one could get back into the stands again, climbing stair on stair, back up, back back to watching, in all innocence, from the shadows of the trees and, shy, only dream of glory. But how to see after you have been seen -- well! 
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Do we ever quite see after that again without seeing a reflected scar? Or is that a mountain unlocated on any chart -- sloping up always away, not to act, after acting, the deed, after all, of all, without equal or parallel? A Paradox The poem -- a very strange form of pleasure to write, with an even stranger, unearned prestige (what is the point of it, beyond a few minutes' indulgence  |
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