James Tate

Plenitude

A thunderstorm had passed.
I sit on the front stoop reading a novel
about a man who thinks man's whole purpose 
is to destroy one another and the planet.
He doesn't strike me as a bad man.
The novel is written in a felicitous manner
and it is highly intelligent.
So the darkness is rich and loamy
and it feels cool and healthy
to run your hands through it.
An aristocrat and successful businessman
(two more attributes he disdains in himself),
he doesn't believe in love or lovemaking,
but admits he is addicted to both.
I'm glad I'm not like this man,
though an evening spent in his company
would not repel me. More likely
I'd feel pity, but not of the condescending kind.
It's like dying before your life is over,
a breathing, walking deadman.
"Look where all your thinking has gotten you,"
I want to tell him. And he can't even cry. 
All afternoon I carry him around with me.
A weight that could drown. 
What does he want?  What do I want from him?
It's too easy to doubt the worth of everything,
to find the flaws and shortcomings
in everyone, including oneself. 
It's enough to know they are there,
and then go on fishing,
down to the slashes the mill-boy glides.

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James Tate's newest book is The Route as Briefed, published by the University of Michigan Press. contents | previous | next