by John Ashbery
[1]This poem is concerned with language on a very plain level[2].
Look at it talking to you.[3] You look out a window
Or pretend to fidget. You have it but you don’t have it[4].
You miss it, it misses you. You miss each other.
The poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot.[5]
What’s a plain level? [6] It is that and other things,
Bringing a system of them into play[7]. Play?[8]
Well, actually, yes, but I consider play to be
A deeper outside thing, a dreamed role-pattern,[9]
As in the division of grace these long August days
Without proof. Open-ended.[10] And before you know
It gets lost in the stream and chatter of typewriters.
It has been played once more.[11] I think you exist only
To tease me into doing it, on your level, and then you aren’t there
Or have adopted a different attitude[12]. And the poem
Has set me softly down beside you. The poem is you.[13][14]
Footnotes