Those Nights, by Frank Bidart

Those Nights, by Frank Bidart

Those Nights
Those nights when despite his exhaustion or indifference
you persisted, then finally it

caught, so that at last he too

wanted it, suddenly was desperate to reach it,
you felt his muscles want it

more than anything, as if through this chaos, this

wilderness he again knew the one thing he must reach
though later, after

he found it, his resentment implied he had been forced.

Those nights ended because what was
missing could never be by
the will supplied. We who could get
somewhere through
words through
sex could not. I was, you said, your
shrink: that’s how
I held you. I failed as my own.

Now you surely are dead. I’ve searched
the databases: you everywhere
elude us. Long ago without your
reaching to tell me, surely
the plague killed you. Each thing in your life
you found so
incommensurate to the spirit
I imagine that becoming
untraceable makes you smile.

Frank Bidart
PEN America Center

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