On the twelfth of August
(the day the birds die
shot down by men
who rent guns
for the weekend only)
I found myself still alone
(and far from Scotland
where it is the majority of
these unprepared birds suffer
their considerable plight
especially grouse apparently
as well they might)
and as a consequence
I made myself a bet.
But almost a month
has now gone by
since the day the birds die
and soon it will be two
and my life remains
nothing more than not you
yet.
The problem it seems to me
seems to be that you are
not you yet
because I don't know who
this you is, I forget,
that is I am uncertain,
nor can I decide
if it's better that we never met
or if in fact we did but in this
forgetting I have forgotten.
And thus I am stuck with a
bruising that seems unfair.
Are you there, somewhere?
Anywhere?
The consequence of losing
this bet (the cost of it;
the thing I will not get)
would be the proof that I am incapable
of true regret, only longing,
and so I wait still
not willing (not yet)
to abandon the possibility
that this confusion
is nothing more
than not you yet.