The Ghost

Frank Bidart

You must not think that what I have
accomplished through you could have been
accomplished by any other means.

Each of us is to himself indelible.

I had to become that which could not be,
by time, from human memory, erased.

I had to burn my hungry, unappeasable
furious spirit so inconsolably into you
you would without cease write to bring me rest.

Bring us rest. Guilt is fecund. I knew
nothing I made myself had enough steel in it to survive.

I tried: I made beautiful paintings, beautiful poems. Fluff. Garbage.

The inextricability of love and hate?

If I had merely made you love me you could not have saved me.

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