having lectured on gut health for industry leaders,
having liked the energy I brought to the role,
having fashioned a lean-to for my taxes

Who am I who speaks to you?

Though that’s not it exactly. Try this. What behind the eyes had looked out so central, so

Unwound from reason on a rope,
All rules of nature foiling,
Sinks the light-armed bathyscope. 

Little caskets of my former dreams,
I feed you back into the Ganges
of living perceptions, extravagant

Furtive, that's the version I want.
With eyes averted. Downcast, a little sly.
It's where it's looking, that's

He knows about the destruction caused by reaction:
emotional wounds, self-inflicted, a repeated torture
he brings about, trying to interrogate the self

He doesn’t want anyone to tell him
what color to paint his house nor
how to design it. He grows tired

To thrash myself with the knowledge, not
the feeling, that my lover Chris has taken
an Alfred the Great in a very Anglo-Saxon way?

Morgan retreats. He retreats into Schubert,
into his journal, into his imagination, his silence.
Away from the personalities, the out-of-order,

 Who can explain the tears in his eyes, realizing
the historical moment crossing into the present,
mountains behind the orchestra at Epidaurus,