I'm back to my sad theme of loneliness again.
And this poem called "Against the Evidence."
I guess it's inescapable.
It's all it is, the American sensibility.
Imagine how many boys are lonely in Vietnam today.
OK, I dedicate it to the boys in Vietnam.
"Against the Evidence."
As I reached the clothes, each book lying open on my desk,
it leaps up to snap at my fingers.
My legs won't hold me.
I must sit down.
My fingers pain me where the thick leaves snap together
at my touch.
All my life I've held books in my hands
like children, carefully turning their pages
and straightening out their creases.
I use books almost apologetically.
I believe I often think their thoughts for them.
Reading, I never know where their leave off and mine begin.
I am so much alone in the world.
I can observe the stars or study the breeze.
I can count the steps on a stair on the way up or down.
And I can look at another human being
and get a smile knowing it is for the sake of politeness.
Nothing must be said of estrangement
among the human race.
And yet, nothing is said at all because of that.
But no book will help either.
I stroked my desk.
It's wood so smooth, so patient and still.
I set a typewriter on its surface
and begin to type to tell myself my troubles.
Against the evidence, I live by choice.