Memories of years ago,
turning pages of Lewis Carroll
at two in the morning,
brains hot as we laughed at logic.
How blind we were, then;
how stargazing and mad
as we snuck through the gate and
walked the trails in the black,
shivering and afraid and invigorated;
each snap of wood from the dark
another reason to hold you close.
You were the only one I saw the beavers with,
and the river otter come out to play;
as if they’d come for you.
We gave bread to the ducks
and talked about that first night,
stars by the lakeside and how
I was too nervous to sit down.
I shook like a reed just standing next to you.
We conquered Carroll and perhaps
I only did it because I felt your equal,
if just for a minute or two.
Then you’d dazzle me:
mathematical virtuosity,
referencing a world of depth I felt beyond me;
poetry by the dockside as we listened
to bullfrog bass and waited for stars to fall.
You offered so much and took so little
that I had no choice but to feel diminished,
though the conclusion ignores the premises.
We conquered Carroll for balance
and we mastered logic,
ignored that emotion will in its tenacity
unravel even the most perfect puzzles,
and were thus undone.