ㅤㅤ A PHOTOGRAPH

• shows you in a London
• room: books, a painting,
• your smile, a silky
• tie, a suit. And more.
• It looks so like you
• and I see it every day
• (here, on my desk)
• which I don’t you. Last
• Friday night was grand.
• We went out, we came
• back, we went wild. You
• slept. Me too. The pup
• woke you and you dressed
• and walked him. When
• you left, I was sleeping.
• When I woke there was
• just time to make the
• train to a country dinner
• and talk about ecstasy.
• Which I think comes in
• two sorts: that which you
• know “Now I’m ecstatic”
• like my strange scream
• last Friday night. And
• another kind, that you
• know only in retrospect:
• “Why, that joy I felt
• and didn’t think about
• when his feet were in
• my lap, or when I looked
• down and saw his slanty
• eyes shut, that too was
• ecstasy. Nor is there
• necessarily a downer from
• it.” Do I believe in
• the perfectibility of
• man? Strangely enough,
• (I’ve known un-
• happiness enough) I
• do. I mean it,
• I really do believe
• future generations can
• live without the in-
• tervals of anxious
• fear we know between our
• bouts and strolls of
• ecstasy. The struck ball
• finds the pocket. You
• smile some years back
• in London, I have
• known ecstasy and calm:
• haven’t you, too? Let’s
• try to understand, my
• handsome friend who
• wears his nose awry.

ㅤㅤ — James Schuyler