Eidolon

On shards of broken terra cotta did I try to breed an absent self,

Bore instead a limpet, bled you half to death in discourse

And sought an igneous love on which to cauterize

The sullen world of absence.

I wonder what of me is missing, or are you the missing part?

When we make damp, unhurried love, the languor of a foreign sun above

The question is absolved, an eidolon of you.

You ride me slowly, seek your own, and I, my own, and we are not as one.

The anodyne that begs a painful question

Who is here and who is not?

Bill Schubart, August ‘92