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
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.