470 and 471

The less I reach out, and the more I stay

inside, away from all and everyone,

the more—I do not know how I can say

it—I am known ere my own story’s spun.

But not by those I frankly call my friends,

tho they know more than most, I will admit.

Yet stories unexpressed at all find ends

to entities that I did not permit.

I sense it when I walk. The sidewalks know,

and every sap and stone that I pass by

will whisper to me, as they watch me go:

they see my silent tales, and, troubles, spy.

She will not spill your secrets, but recall:

that Gaia knows you most, and best of all.

~~~

I love to have you hate to look at me.

(I know that that’s not really what it means)

but when you look my way so “hatefully”

at something silly—those are precious scenes.

And why is that? And all the sillier!

But that you stay is really why it’s best.

It’s that your hate-loomed eyes longly linger

on mine that tells them they are not oppressed.

To be so oft oppressed like that. Say not

you love me, lest you never hate again.

I hope always I have some silly thought

that hails your hate to where it’s so oft been.

Look, then let me think hate is all I’ve got;

and then, assure, by staying, it is not.