WEBVTT

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I'm back to my sad theme
of loneliness again.

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And this poem called
"Against the Evidence."

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I guess it's inescapable.

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It's all it is, the
American sensibility.

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Imagine how many boys are
lonely in Vietnam today.

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OK, I dedicate it to
the boys in Vietnam.

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"Against the Evidence."

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As I reached the clothes, each
book lying open on my desk,

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it leaps up to
snap at my fingers.

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My legs won't hold me.

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I must sit down.

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My fingers pain me where the
thick leaves snap together

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at my touch.

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All my life I've held
books in my hands

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like children, carefully
turning their pages

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and straightening
out their creases.

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I use books almost
apologetically.

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I believe I often think
their thoughts for them.

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Reading, I never know where
their leave off and mine begin.

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I am so much alone in the world.

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I can observe the stars
or study the breeze.

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I can count the steps on a
stair on the way up or down.

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And I can look at
another human being

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and get a smile knowing it is
for the sake of politeness.

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Nothing must be
said of estrangement

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among the human race.

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And yet, nothing is said
at all because of that.

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But no book will help either.

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I stroked my desk.

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It's wood so smooth,
so patient and still.

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I set a typewriter
on its surface

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and begin to type to
tell myself my troubles.

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Against the evidence,
I live by choice.

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