when I sit with you
in this quiet, small-town restaurant
and we begintalking
about great poets come and gone,
I examine my own crumb ofhistory.
I start thinking I should shut my mouth
and slip as gently aspossible
into the lake of the dead -
not disturbing the surface
anymore than a dry leaf would -
allowing those blue, silent circles to be
myopposite but equal reaction.
But when we begin talking
about great poemsthat've endured,
I realize that the ancient secret
that stirred so many tosong
happens to be mine at the moment.
I think of how the heavenly hostwould've laughed
had they gotten to tell me,
"You were there at 3 p.m.on Friday,
but instead of tasting that sweet bread,
you sighed and passedthe basket
to the next in line."