Now You Know

There are things I would never show you
because they are so beautiful they would
crack your eyes like yokes over toast running
down your cheeks. Without your eyes you'd never
again be able to sign a check or tag a subway car.
A layer of grime would coat your floors
and the books you loved so much would sit
as slabs of marble sit in an abandoned quarry.
But I would come for you every day with nutritious
morsels of watercress and apricots. I would
make sure your sheets were fresh and the scent
of sandalwood and myrrh would envelop your
scarf whenever we walked arm-in-arm from your home
to the East River. I would really learn French
and modulate my voice in such a way
that you would think I was someone else,
a newer more sublime stranger with the stylish
yet off-the-cuff manner of an educated
railroad worker reading Plato in the caboose.
I will never abandon you, not for money or art
or even the promise of a purer love. My motives
are so clear that I'll never show you something
that would crack your eyes, ever. Now you know.