Poem 40

Giving away, flinging out at a remarkable pace.

Hinting at a misdeed, hearing of a crime.

Too many things to keep, so many things to stay.

Thinking of the things that were given away and

of the things that were kept.

Stories that were true until they ended;

stories that ended because they were true.

And somewhere, anywhere else you

were taking and taking and taking and

I was here giving and giving and giving,

but what did you gain and what did I lose?

Because you would have always taken what

I would have always given.

And what I kept for myself was

only the knowledge of my giving.

From me, you could have anything you wanted:

anything I could give, anything you could take.

But it was freedom at the price of desertion,

not comfort at the cost of freedom.

What I had, not what I wanted.

Giving and flinging out what you did not want.

But there was room for keeping and little to keep.

Make new, make new, make new.

Keep, keep, keep, and make something new.

But for me only giving.

And for you only taking.

Hinting at a crime, becoming a criminal.

Stories were destroyed and were abandoned;

stories were abandoned because they destroyed.

And the collapse that comes from emptiness,

from spilling over and pouring out.

Giving but not generous.

Taking but not greedy.

And wanting to make stories worth keeping.

And flinging out what should not stay.