The Love Desk

I have always made an effort to avoid missing those things beyond my reach; so little point. Not always possible, of course, but a proof of free will is sometimes to be found in our struggle against incapability (as free will itself can often be).

To love some thing (or one) is to be infected at the same time by a fear of its loss or removal. For all of that this struggle to avoid is also what leads to an unconscious holding back, even a reluctance, when it comes to fully celebrating the place of a loved one (or thing) in the very present of its presence.

This reduction of the here and now is (very precisely) a great pity and one I also try to avoid, as one should with variables in any equation. All good, in essence and theory also, but I sat at my desk today and sobbed at it (the desk itself).

I was happy to see the old thing again
sat there inanimate as ever, but massive and metal
not in need of any speaking, such a statement does it make
just by sitting across half the room’s width.

The weeping was also because
the nine or ten months of the year
we are not together
are a symbolic absence
of what has been lost.

I have another desk, in Austin.
It is there now
cluttered and full,
awaiting my arrival in August,
phlegmatic, unfussed, complacent almost
(I had a Nanny once who always told me
that to anthropomorphize oneself
was a terrible mistake, she never once
mentioned doing the same for desks
or other common furniture).

The Austin item has a metal top also,
but it is little more than beaten silver foil,
a thin layer on a wooden base.
This magnificent beast before me
weighs several hundred pounds
and on the rare occasion of its moving
requires many men and awe as well as cursing.

We lived in New York City then
as everyone should consider doing
if only for a little while.
It was a Sunday afternoon, a warm Autumn,
and we were walking downtown
when she pulled me into a shop
that stood across a whole city block.
It had many departments
(being that kind of store).

She took me down into the basement
where there were endless (and endlessly large)
industrial objects made mostly of metal
iron and steel, shot-blasted,
and not originally constructed
for domestic use or purchase
by the bourgeois classes
of which (that afternoon in New York City)
we were then masquerading.

Love at first sight is real.
As is loss, eventually and afterwards,
and therein lies the thing of it.




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