WEBVTT

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And ultimately, a little poem
to my wife, titled To Dorothy.

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You are not beautiful exactly.

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You are beautiful inexactly.

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You let a weed grow
by the mulberry,

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and a mulberry
grow by the house.

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So close in the personal
quiet of a windy

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night, it brushes the wall
and sweeps away the day

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till we sleep.

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A child said it
and it seemed true.

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Things that are
lost are all equal.

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But it isn't true.

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If I lost you, the air wouldn't
move nor the tree grow.

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Someone would pull
the weed, my flower.

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The quiet wouldn't be yours.

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If I lost you I'd have to
ask to grass to let me sleep.

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