Response to Some Questions (for Ana)
 
What it is like to love you is not when
wintering south, birds stop to feather themselves
in other wings for shelter and, some, for fun—
you are more fun and less safe. Nor like what
human instincture sewn in us compels,
a sorting among this-es for that
one to love whom depends only on who
happens by, for your happening
pervades me, is all that I happen through
and in, and that evades me. And no where
can overcome your resistance to being
cordoned by distance: you permit no there
to part us, pointing too early at death,
or to stop you from being why
                                                       I draw breath.


William Glass