Off-center in a concave return

for a brother, I think

I'm happy that nothing does

repeat us, and almost glad,

that alteration binds us. 
We inquire; this is ours,
this altercation.

     I know that I braid too much my own

     Snapped-off perceptions of things as they come to me.

     They are private and always will be.

     Where then are the private turns of event

     Destined to boom later like golden chimes

     Released over a city from a highest tower?

     The quirky things that happen to me, and I tell you,

     And you instantly know what I mean?

     What remote orchard reached by winding roads

     Hides them? Where are these roots?

John Ashbery

Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror

  The One Thing That Can

  Save America, stanza iii

Viking, 1975©