On finding a kindred spirit in Sappho,
then knowing too much anthropology
to trust my own instincts
I have had not one word from her
Frankly I wish I was dead
Sappho (Barnard translation)
but the human heart remains the same.
As if we don’t foolishly scrawl
our ignorance across everything
Kilroy was here to claim that he knows that you are
just like him.
As if the world weren’t
bigger than big
"Shakespeare in the bush"
and all that
etc etc etc
Maybe it is only this foolishness
that stays the same:
a need for analogy
soldered to an evolutionary tangle
reading into what we can’t remotely understand
to feed our own need—
the need of our time
our language, our heart.