Close was enough, but any closer,
More than you could bear.
Eating, I, a sometime talker often
Struck dumb, glimpsed you
Considering the glory of your estate:
To wait always hungrily
At the Great Door.
If one had kept you under a gentle
Thumb when you were younger,
If one had not
Let you taste of the bruised black
Radishes dabbled in shoyu
And attar of sesame,
If one had not at first unfolded, then
Pulled out from under you
It would have been different. As it was,
Glancing inside, you paused,
Sensing the threshold.
So it was not without forbearance,
Refusing to be admitted
You had come.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 4 Number 3, on page 35
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