In Retreat

To want and chase what cannot be attained
Must inevitably attract,
But to chase when I'm wrong in the brain
Lacks wisdom, wit and tact.

The dryness of my mouth and pounding of my heart
Must surrender to the shifting of my feet.
Touch and taste are burdens, the marble-sculptor's art
When I am in retreat.

My asking if we're right or wrong
Is making hay at night.
The two of us can't be two strong,
Until this one is right.