No scope great enough can examine you.
What I call the soul, you call escape. You say to me,
You shall never know
this thing inside me.
You spit in my face, kick against my goads.
What I call love, you call straining against the darkness.
Your light is never more controlled, more hidden,
than when I’m looking. To be blinded by you
would be better than this—withheld from grace.
I have no other word for the occasional you
I see, stepping from the bath, smiling as I hold
your towel out to you. I try and make sense of it,
I try and make sense of everything.
