Friday night March 2,2012; revised Tuesday, May 24,2016
Art comes from everywhere, is beautiful, inspiring,
thoughit can neither sustain nor save us. It need not,
of course, yet art promises so much.The work of art?
More to the point, whatif I should lose you?Enduring loss
after loss, I have come to realize that saying "me" says "you"
simultaneously, and such newfound knowledge is bitter,
grievous, and I don't know how to grieve such added grief—
I listen for you, the sound of your voice sounding somewhere
in the distance, then nearby, finally coming home to rest in me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem