What I have to give you you don’t want
Or cannot any longer recognize.
What you still seem to want or need I give
Grudgingly, then less and less, and not.

What I need you no longer can give me,
And both of us are angry. So I turn
Away and have for years,
Though rooted to the spot,

Been turning like a beam,
A searchlight hopefully
Or doggedly from sheer
Habit raking the gloom.

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 26 Number 5, on page 35
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