For the first time I understand
why some call despair a sin.
Not that I haven’t felt the terrible if.
Not that I haven’t thought
of walking into the woods and not
returning. The pistol shot. The cliff.
Despair is like the weather. It will
change. Or it will kill you.
I could not feel it again
unless, my love, I lost
proximity to you, whose mind
is like a lens
bringing the world closer
just as it is, and whose skin
is the sublime
measurement of time.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 42 Number 3, on page 33
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