This one is called "Deep Revision."
There's a beach we go to in Rhode Island.
And we go in the summer, as people usually do.
I like going in the winter when nobody's there,
but I don't like the beach.
But when nobody's there, I like it.
But it's cold in winter.
Anyway, it's worth it.
But "Deep Revision."
"I look up from this unfolded page
I've discovered, for the hand has its memories
in my back pocket, forgotten, only
to find that you were gone.
After some more time has passed, time
spent decoding its runic, largely illegible messages
meant clearly for these eyes only, surprise,
a pen appears in my hand.
And while I myself might appear to be nothing
but somebody's body hunched down between low, grassy dunes
shielding itself from the cold, I am already traveling back.
I am elsewhere.
Alas, very elsewhere.
Amen.
But when I look up, you're still gone.
And does this put a stop to it?
Whatever it is I am doing wherever I am?
That the thoughtful thing at this point
might be to interrupt my work, my whatever it is I
imagine I've been doing all my life,
and take a walk in search of you.
This occurs to me.
It does.
And do I follow through?
Does he so bestir himself, you may well ask?
Not I. I'm already off again.
A new obstacle having presented itself
in the form of numb fingers requiring a glove.
Then there's somewhat hampered progress once sheathed
in thick, black leather padding.
Not to mention the minds now distracted
by hand's new resemblance to that
of some non-Homo sapiens primates.
A gorilla, say.
One struck by lightning, and weirdly thereafter compelled
to take up composition.
Not of lyrical fragments, let's hope for its sake,
as surely it stands a vastly improved chance
of making a living by authoring a mass market novel.
Perhaps, the ever popular memoir.
In its case, one bound for best-sellerdom, clearly.
I look up, and still you are nowhere to be seen.
Still unfound, leaving me bereft of any company
but that of low-grade terror in the guise of the winter
Atlantic.
That wind blown, dark emerald, and seemingly infinite
plane upon whose horizon we one day so long
ago in our frail craft first appeared.
God forgive us, the battered catastronauts.
Though to look on the bright side,
so too did the disgruntled Jefferson.
No doubt doubly disgruntled now on his way back from France.
Illustrious runner up for best failed and betrayed revolution.
I can almost see his still far away sail, wind
suddenly tearing the page from my fingers.
Goodbye.
Goodbye, lousy page.
Childless kite.
White shirt left on shore by the swimmer who
will not be needing it anymore.
The overarching dilemma remains, increasingly
remains as the early dark deepens.
No, you.
I am ready to confess now.
It is beginning to get to me.
And by way of emphasis, I am fully prepared
to stand up here before the first merciless stars
in silent beseeching to look up and down, look both ways,
to call out if need be, which way have you gone?
This winter beach, this narrow desert, it isn't all that long.
What is wrong with me?
How could I have lost track of you?
I know it was just a little walk you went on, tactfully allowing
me to concentrate, I guess.
And I am concentrating, all right.
My mind filled to the exclusion of all else
by a small, evil voice.
Oh, see her walk.
Whitely walking on the waves.
And this is all bullshit.
I don't even want to work.
I am sick to death.
I don't want to write anything ever.
I just want you."
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]
Thank you.