Why is it the young are so convinced
we want to hold them back, keep them
from what they think they want the most
to do? In my time I was no different—
Little hot-head, little handful of matches
kept discreetly under the hood. Salt, saltpeter;
kegs of combustibles. Mistress of the discreet
ruse, the decorous alibi, tortured by sighs.
A field in love with the sea, a ship with land:
When finally you get to cross the threshold
and look back from the murky forest of middle
age, you laugh. How was it possible not to see?
With its window dressing, desire makes everything
under the sun look shiny, new again: original.
In response to Via Negativa: Conflicts of interest.