Clellon Holmes
FRAU VON STEIN, MY BROTHER'S KEEPER
Some postman rings but never sees you either.
You pick up letters, then take coffee or a class,
Reading them on a step somewhere who keep my brother
When you read. You carefully wade his nerve's morass,
Seeking an upland in the words,
.a
solid stone,
But reaching no neural bog you cannot gracefully pass.
You chose your role as comrade, knew he needed one.
Concerned recipient of him as letter-lover,
You water whimsy and digest the purgative pun,
Temper the outbursts, make his definition mover,
Say only, with your tact, you actually seek yourself
In this, a monologue you do not seek to smother
When you write. Why do you save his letters on a shelf?
You're one he goes to .after hours. Are you alone?
And is your love's neutrality the only health
For him? Perhaps you're cynic as you read him grown
Beyond the early envelopes. Or he cuts cruelly your heart
But brings some frantic palatal air it's never known.
Or are you what you are, the simple cool remark
Encased in understanding that he rav'nously reads
And angers at or loves, which leaves its medical mark?
He
thinks
you wishfully up when passion makes him plead,
548
