I don't pretend to be better.
I'm not. Were we to encounter
each other in some displaced hell,
where a lack of conversation
or an abundance of red wine
led to failing trepidations,
we'd talk and probably get on.
But before long I'm sure you'd see
the tendencies of my glances;
how they trace the line of a hem,
the passersby that can draw them.
There will be patterns for mapping,
and despite yourself, you are wise:
things are just as bad as they seem.
Maybe I couldn't surprise you,
but I would revel in your words
and try in vain to provide the kind
of good you'd always had in mind.