---

John Cornwall

New One

Uncertainty.
The gradual undoing of things known.
Who loved, who loves, whom shall love.

And in long stretched evenings of pallor,
in long stretched evenings of giving in
the familiar sound of something good,
entirely faultless, entirely new
the human you lets out calls.
In dull fashion we reassemble,
the sound of others sleeping,
buzzing, unseen eyes that do not falter,
unknowing, unknown.

I would love the love of you.
I would love the love of giving
you majesty:
Beethoven, Bach,
Franz Kafka.
All of this, all of this yours.
But what if God in his wisdom
left such things barren and undone.

The horror! The horror!

At twenty two you will read these words
and flounder.
You are not my father,
never was meant to be.
I am saying this now.
And in the casual almost comfortable way
of parenting I shall, perhaps dull, perhaps
gray, say yes that is what was meant to be,
this is what was meant.
Then close my eyes, accept a given attitude
and rest with undulating comfort.

Love and love alone prevails,
absolute murder of affection.