To the Point In a gift of breathless retrospect, A laughing fold of buttoned rayon Prophesies reclining On the lake-blown dandelions Of an improbable April afternoon; Discursive and wandering Past issues, interests, and recollections To chase eidetic truths that coax the truest light From a shuttered visage Since unshut and utterly abandoned For a smooth gratitude that tugs the lips earward. And he and she pause in their words to watch the water. "It all makes sense," she speaks, "somehow." Her father's drinking and his murdered uncle Her seaside vacations and his first phonograph The relief of revealing her parents Gardening outdoors, in an uneasy twilight. And she, the prisoner of her own attentions, Breathes with the breeze a sigh Of simple contentedness Of simple content In proof that there is No such thing as godless conversation. No meaning steps between attendant ears Without the motive of the Word, Nor joy well-met without the fear Of finding dead the voice thus heard. Had we but known ourselves before our meeting Had we but loved each other well That day would stand, a small parousia, Not fall, a spent farewell.