Analysis Terminable
My love, the dead rearise in our dreams.
Even you, ease-seeker. A summer camp,
Fifties era, background volleyball teams,
Was the setting where my sleeping headlamp
Found you. Through clear and warming August air
I watched you raise your arms and approach me
In a gesture loving and, in life, rare.
Rare because direct, without subtlety,
Nothing to interpret or erase
With universal solvent intellect.
Don’t you see why you put me in that place?
He was there … My poor son… His summer wrecked…
My love, your voice still rises in my ear;
Still misses, with analytic skill,
The obvious, preanalytical embrace.