To The Poet

He still listens to the songs, yes,
the ones you put together so meticulously.

He listens to them at night, sometimes, and sometimes
he imagines how you must have pored through each one,

"This one won't do, no. This one, maybe."

The morsels of delicious words you concocted, as well,
will always nourish him, but not just him,
not anymore.

Whenever he takes a thoughtful stab with his own fingers,
he thinks of you. The mechanics are the same,
"This one won't do, no. This one, maybe," and sometimes,
for just a second, his hands become completely numb.

From Endgame, by Samuel Beckett

“What is it, my pet? Time for love?”

(Nell, to Nagg, after Nagg has just rapped on her trash lid.)

To a Stranger By Walt Whitman, from Leaves of Grass

PASSING stranger! You do not know how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me, as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall’d as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me, were a boy with me, or a girl with me,
I ate with you, and slept with you—your body has become not yours only, nor left my body mine only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass—you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,
I am not to speak to you—I am to think of you when I sit alone, or wake at night alone,
I am to wait—I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.