I wish I were as talented

at anything as he is

at pulling Derrida into

a conversation, any

conversation, no matter

what we’re discussing:

Derrida. Even once

when he was telling me

why he didn’t have

the assignment, even then

after a long and aerobic

journey we arrived

at Derrida, his white

hair and elegant European

ideas, and it felt good—

I admit it felt good to finally

arrive there—ah bonjour

Monsieur Derrida!—

because at least I knew

then where I was, even

if it wasn’t where

I wanted to be. To pretend,

Derrida said, I actually

do the thing: I have therefore

only pretended to pretend.

I pretend sometimes. Other

times all I do is pretend.

I’ve created gods this way

and on occasion I’ve tied

those gods together

like they do bed sheets

in a movie, and I’ve escaped

the high tower of myself

this way, I’ve made it

to solid ground this way,

landed on the earth.

And each time I’ve been sure

I’ve actually done the thing,

but then I look up

and the gods are gone.