19

We were few.

We found in the belittling bombast of bosses
No trace of you, no spark of me,
No whiff of rhetoric, eroticism,
No intimate story and no inner fact.
The raw sex of emotions for leaders was mud
In the eye of the class struggle.

We were some.

We spoke to each other like wildfire
In the distance. We frequented each other
Like burning secrets, we were not friends
With each other nor could we be friends with me.
We must not disentangle the dream we
Had of you from ourselves.

We were a few.

And all that was useful was the exclusive rhythm
Of cursing under the breath, the fleshy vision
That slept in the paintbrush of Bosch, the tautly
Strung string in a grand of Igor Stravinsky.
All that was useful was your stuttering reading
That letter by letter completes what I write.

We were others.