Finding your suitable match must be
something like finding happiness—
kind of thing, killed
if you try too hard
at all. It must be, because
I’ve killed a few myself,
trying so hard I’ve often died.
Then those little deaths gather
for a little convention
over the three-day weekend, saluting
the limpid white flag you carry
in the Parade of Failures and teasing
graveside toasts to your attempts.
All you wanted was reunion,
your Aristophanic better half,
and to release the pressure
on your own weary one,
weary, it turns out, from trying.
If it had only known not to try
till it always died
it may have found its wholeness
in a repose supposedly
unsupposed to be noticed.
– D. R. James