After Shakespeare's 'Sonnet 138'
I don't know what's illusion, what is truth
or fact or subterfuge. I know she lies
because I lie myself, my years of youth
afforded opportunity. The subtleties
of love aren't lost on her, aren't lost in the young
and lithe curves of her mind. I try my best
to give her all my spirit, move my tongue
with her as if she were words. Names suppress
the things they name, no definition's just
to what it finishes—now I am the old
and hardened man. I don't know who to trust
lest I may trust myself, a prophet told
a story of the lust she'd grown in me
as a sure trial—a fiction she must be.
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