Almost Understood

We are all literate books: 

Short stories of ourselves 

And self-perusing –  

Others in our pages also stories 

And in their pages we appear 

          Abridged, distorted, 

          Clumsily translated 

In miniature, and on, and on, 

A fractal of diminishing selves. 

And I was never known, and never 

Knew. The selves I held were foreign 

And the childish unself portraits 

Told me I was never read 

          With comprehending eyes 

          Except by you – except by you. 

You are the book I read at last 

Lying open in my hands and 

          Almost understood 

Yours the sketches, more me than me, 

That tell me I am 

          Almost understood.