You do not always know what I am feeling. Last night in the warm spring air while I was blazing my tirade against someone who doesn’t interest me, it was love for you that set me afire,
and isn’t it odd? for in rooms full of strangers my most tender feelings writhe and bear the fruit of screaming. Put out your hand, isn’t there an ashtray, suddenly, there? beside the bed? And someone you love enters the room and says wouldn’t you like the eggs a little
different today? And when they arrive they are just plain scrambled eggs and the warm weather is holding.
I couldn’t possibly choose a favourite poem, but this is one of my favourites
“Walking home across the plain in the dark.
And Linda crying. Again we have come
to a place where I rail and she suffers and the moon
does not rise. We have only each other,
but I am shouting inside the rain
and she is crying like a wounded animal,
knowing there is no place to turn. It is hard
to understand how we could be brought here by love.”—“Walking Home Across The Island,” Jack Gilbert