I have a poem in two voices.
And I've tried forever to read this poem alone
in the two voices, looking this way, looking that way.
I only get distracted and confused.
Camille is going to be the 35-year-old me,
and I'm going to be the 25-year-old me, in a poem
called "Unfinished Duet."
"At first, there were too many branches, so he cut them.
And then it was winter.
He meaning you?
Yes.
He would look out the window and stare
at the trees that once had too many branches
and now seem to have too few.
Is that all?
No.
There were other attempts, breakfasts, plates served,
plates carried away.
He doesn't know what to do with his hands.
He likes the feel of the coffee pot.
More than the hacksaw?
Yes.
And he likes flipping the chairs,
watching them fill with people.
He likes the orange juice and toast of it
and wax lowers in any light.
He wants to be tender and merciful.
That sounds overly valorous.
It sounds like penance.
And his hands?
His hands keep turning into birds and flying away from him.
Him being you?
Yes.
Do you love yourself?
I don't have to answer that.
It should matter.
He has a body, but it doesn't matter.
Clean sheets on the bed, but it doesn't matter.
This is where he trots out his sadness, little black cloud,
a little black umbrella.
You miss the point.
The face in the mirror is a little traitor.
The face in the mirror is a pale and naked hostage,
and no one can tell which room he's being held in.
He wants in.
He wants out.
He wants the antidote.
He stands in front of the mirror with a net,
hoping to catch something.
He wants to move forward into the afternoon
because there is no other choice.
Everyone in this room got here somehow,
and everyone in this room will have to leave.
So what's left?
Sing a song about the room we're in?
Hammer in the pegs that fixed the meaning to the landscape?
The voice wants to be a hand, and the hand
wants to do something useful.
What did you really want?
Someone to pass this with me.
You wanted more.
I want what everyone wants.
He raises the moon on a crane for a fact.
Cue the violins.
That's what the violins are for.
And yes, he raises the moon on a crane
and scrubs it until it shines.
So what does it shine on?
Nothing.
Was there no one else?
Left-handed truth, right-handed truth--
there's no pure way to say it.
The wind blows, and it makes a noise.
Pain makes a noise.
We bang on the pipes, and it makes a noise.
Was there no one else?
His hands keep turning into birds,
and his hands keep flying away from him.
Eventually, the birds must land."