The desk on which I wrote first poems br Six-liners, desperately in love br The LPs carried down the street br In case we met, I might impress br br Her with my fresh scrubbed face br I wished for glasses much less thick br And hair more so, and darker yet br Waiting for Saturday to come br br Imagining with whom she'd leave br The taste of Kiddush on her tongue br For some smoky mysterious pub br Or movie house, or music club br br She seemed so self-possessed! br Was she? Her poem said br Sometimes I wish I didn't see. br Living would be so easy. br br Her perfect face, perfect to me br Swelled bosom, page-boy hair br Soft eyes, why did she wish br For blindness nonetheless? br br Not a single kiss, in truth br Not even one caress! Just one br Slow dance in the shul: br So Long, Frank Lloyd Wright - br br I still know every note. br And then she rode off for the night br And for the rest of time br She vanished in the world upon br br Whose surface, in whose face br I would never find her trace br My friends, laugh all you can br I wonder if she made it through br br And thought of me again. br I seek her still, so that we may br Compare our poems, our notes of grace, br And all the people we became.