The analyst is an imposing metaphor of the exterior. He is the ultimate eroticism: all looking with no touching. Yet, given time to be oneself, untouched, one suddenly touches the self. What Narcissus could not achieve, his hand disturbing only water, wanting to penetrate what is nowhere.

•

I do not know what I hold more clearly in my mind:

the pain of what I can never have,

or the pain of knowing

I have its equivalence, which is a shocking

contrast, a kind of magnificent reality.

What do you do with what you have?

Some ancient blackout that’s still covering everything

like an immaterial theater troupe’s curtain—

I am speaking of course

of love.