That Single Syllable
That single syllable, that “friend,” turns out
To be a complex concept, fraught, much more
A metaphor, an emblem full of doubt,
A stumbling figure of speech, a locked door
Than some completely open beauty. Not
Transparent, even; barely translucent,
If truth be told. We try to find the slot
That fits us. No gesture is conducent
To fetterless touching; especially
The Latin root, to bring together, sneers
At us, “Forget the spirit.” Fleshily,
The heavy whispers say, “No one coheres.”
..All this, and worse is cynically true
….Until I wake up, lying next to you.