Saturday, November 8, 2014

The Disciplines (all those terminal degrees)

The Disciplines (all those terminal degrees)

We are from different times
and different places,

but intersections and magnetism
are beautiful narcotics.

I am now forced to be an archeologist
of my own dreams

where you come again and again
offering indifference.

This is a different kind of discipline, then,
because it is not my field,

and even in my rare dreamweaving,
I am a rank amateur.

Sleeping, I must not shout out your name
in the middle of the night;

I must not fling back warmed covers,
leaping up to run again to you.

But it is there I am disciplined, a Grand Master,
a Jedi, a ninja in all black,

having perfecting the nuanced art of lies
and deception—of not being me.

The disciplines lead us to the inevitable, I suppose,
of all those terminal degrees.

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