Discovering Your Shape

So the legends recuperate at televised
parties, celestial jokes sprinkling editorials.
So the president pounds on the blackboard
of the world and its canker sores are chalked.
So what, the party asks on the party line,
itself a social act, already arch and feral
in the arch and feral gossip of the pre-war past.

You age ungracefully but with that honest
principia that still chokes me.
I gather up the conversations, hours in the
bedclothes, noting how these muscles
seem enemy tonight~but, but, the moment
asks more. The woman in you cannot
help you anymore than the man in me
can distinguish my confusion.

Some things cannot be changed.
This is the limit of growth~the tree will die
in the garden in the stance it first chose
and the way the world turned it with gravity and wind.
Its wars patient its shapes whatever it has
become~nonetheless, you are beautiful.
I am handsome.

We come to the Tribune over coffee.
Two person telephone
in a world of legendary manice depression,
chalk squealing on a board.
In the background the children hassle
like so many before, just a celebration.

Call me. Tell me what you are doing.