Love's Diary Found
(for B.)
It was an old notebook and
much of the writing had faded with age:
I had never really appreciated
the corrosive aspects of time until then.
But I knew something must have been there
to make it feel so special.
And I imagined being first to read it
though I guess that was naïve.
1 October 1989
In the last poem “he” was me. This time “I” is you. I’ve said before that my poetry forms a kind of diary—especially the poems from this period—but there are gaps, gaping holes; they don’t present a realistic picture of my life at this time. They say love is blind. As always a bland statement like that is open to interpretation so here’s mine: Love sees nothing but itself and the object of its affection; it’s oblivious to the rest of the world. That pretty much sums up how I was with B. I wasn’t completely unmindful to my duties—I went to work, took care of my family and attended to my responsibilities in the congregation—but I was on autopilot. All that existed was the next time I could get my fix of B. It’s sad really, clichéd even.
