Though I am, and perhaps you, too, are, weird,
though I am, and perhaps you, too, are a bundle of idiosyncratic brain chemicals and neural circuitry that render incompetent and useless,
though my thoughts which seem to be insights and important are neither, are trivial or trite or false,
though I cannot grasp an original truth of interest,
though I am a clod washed from the shore, as, perhaps, are you, too,
still I am strangely necessary. You, too. This weirdness
is not ours, but the universe's, or God's.
Can this be said?
I think: not like this.
I am (and perhaps you, too, are) here to love, and that can be said.
The bell that tolls for thee, for all of us,
tolls for me, too --
for my grief and loss,
and for my death and passing, though my every pass
I can still sometimes catch yours --
just get it somewhere in my vicinity, OK?
White Plains, 2017 May