Whole Week Parked Low

Determined to be alone
With his lover, the meadow,
The wind in the trees, the world,

Which loves and does not love him,
Which wants and wants for nothing,
Which is no kind of person

But generates all persons,
The mother of paradox
Never paradox herself.

You can see he’s easily
Confused, not unrequited.
You can see him in the grass

Just sitting there, watching hours
Move the clouds and light around,
His car parked by the wayside.

You can, but you likely won’t.
You have your own wants to want,
Your own loves to rush toward.