how many times?

how many times have I walked over your empty acreage
while you're away at work or asleep
in a comfortable house nearer the city? thank you
for leaving it open for me. thank you for not farming it
or developing it.  thank you for letting the grass grow
and the trees age in peace.  you're absent and generous.
and tonight in the dirt, my feet draw a line—
everything that's beautiful, I like to think is mine.

you were 17 when we met, I think I remember the time
or the place, at least.  I couldn't trust my eyes then
and you laughed.  it ran though all my days
in that school and I liked to call you 'friend.'
I remember your expressions and I keep a file of each one
like an eager secretary who can only shake his head
at his own foolishness.  a bolder man saw you shine
but everything that's beautiful, I like to think is mine.

in Crime and Punishment are two pages I won't read
aloud to anyone because they are my story of redemption
from sin and murder and are not Dostoevsky's
to share with anyone else.  how could he have meant
it otherwise?  I can't be honest with my favorites
or I will give too much of myself away.
I'll claim a radio lyric, a story, a rhyme,
because everything that's beautiful, I like to think is mine.

an old watch on Main under plate-glass display, your hands
at the end of the day on the dirtied windows of my car,
the smell of grease at the airport that means I'm home,
and your voice on my answering machine—all grit my teeth
in possession.  how can I be full without these accidental gifts,
without this rich landscape?  how else can I stake my plot
in this gold rush of identity?  there's peace in what I find,
because everything that's beautiful, I like to think is mine.