Their red lamps make a childlike stab
At decadence. Now and again a hoot
That pretends to know too much. And all
Of us jammed tight together in
The clubbiness of drinking. Gauged pressures
Of a hip, an elbow, mean whatever—
Nothing, or the first step toward
A glance, an appraisal, a mirrored
Interest. Also, a mirror reflects
Shiny bottles and the company behind
One's back: studied nonchalance, arched
Or puzzled brows, tight jackets, scratching
Of a beard. Cliches from the juke box
Suddenly ring true; so that I leave
The bar—and none too steady—for
A corner table a mosquito candle
Beacons me to. There. A relief
To have stopped being after anything.
Who needs it? Besides, one cruises
Mainly to cruise, navigating from island
To island, not counting on landfalls—
Though in fact I met you in a place
Much like this. You. So often
I've thought the word in that upper case
We use for what is one of a kind.
Thought, and sometimes written; wondering
Whether dispensing with names,
An apparent gender, showed, oh,
Cowardice, betrayal; or good sense.
I always wrote to You, supposing
The alert would catch on anyway.
And not wanting to seem a special case
Myself-though who isn't one? Holiday,
For example; with her ambiguous first name.
Nothing vague about the voice, certainly.
Listen: love mixed with a little hate for
Him. Sounds universal to me.