To Whom it May Concern

When I tell my story of the world,
Will it not disclose you more than me?

Could you, into my life, have through that portal peered,
Had I not lifted up the curtain for you to see within?

Will not it be that you were there with me when I lifted it,
Not as some other but myself, known, even as I am, to me?

You will not think then that I but catalog my ignorances:
I shall sculpt your features from a breeze for doves to ride on
And hoist my sacrifice where proliferate no other form of monument.

Will I tell then that I was here and loved you
And was not loved?