I know that try as I might
to put my fingers on you,
you are not like the moon
or the sea, or the stars.
You in no way resemble
an historic revolution
nor crowning glory -
not one divine calamity,
nor any worshipped thing
or valued prize of note.
If I say you recall to me
some splendid piece of music,
art or industry, it only serves
to show them meagre things.
Distinct from any raving,
heart-stirred temper,
any desperate madness
as described in detail
by a better mind than mine.
There is not a single heroine
or a favourite pair of jeans
that catches light the way
you are inclined always to do.
The very light itself, whether
atmosphere azure
or a sunlit shade, is not
quite you, try though it might.
And if the sharpest wit
or barbed retort
might shame an empress,
it fades to but a whisper
in the dark under your eye.
The world becomes white noise.
The stars and moon and sea
white noise. No thing in nature
or otherwise conceived
will ever hold a passing thought
because they are not you.
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