To someone whose esoteric I really miss

(for joan)

who's likely westering til some empty words of mine hurry in at a spot

by a lake full of Rauschenberg

so I can grab on to a length of shore, gold like her very self, and the wise

impassivity of her geese and all

She's away and trenchant as her pure mind is, intent on the lake that

may or mayn't reply to her,

too flustered by rootless ideas, I guess, and guys like me who did hurt

the true dear Acadian in her

She of a quiet verve who moves you instead to discompose the unkind

and the untrue, every time--

til sadly all you're left with is a patch of pure land at her bench emptying,

and never still as you'd like

her to be