I’m always wandering afterward,
the crisis of my face in close examination.
What to say, what I said, what I might:
my romantic confusion—
where to go from here,
where I have been.
Now to turn and simply go on home,
more unsure than then,
whenever that was,
how—and why—
Some cry returns
I can never entirely retain
or restrain,
a wanting not to wont,
a fitting for the frame,
a reason not to blame.