wayfaring

I don't picture you dawning 
in brightening sky, 
lifting you higher 
or even high
I don't picture you deepening 
darkling despair,
stern and unbowed 
with a painstaking care, 
or popping a curtsy 
with ironic mirth. 
Wond'ring what now 
has become of the rest. 
I don't picture you naked 
in splendid rebirth, 
or shining arrayed 
in whatever raiment
suits best. I don't picture
you really at all. Not
as such. I imagine 
such pictures can't hurt 
or help. I imagine you are
who you've shown, who 
I know, and I bet 
my idea of you 
has nothing on you 
yourself.

I expect 
pain hurts,
doubt gnaws, irritates.
I imagine you equal to any
such sums as could add, multiply,
exponentially better or worse. 
I expect that life vexes and bucks, 
but I bet you are up to such stakes,
pounding deeper or raised
in all blessing or curse, even though
you'd prefer smaller stakes to come.

I picture you not averse.
Just a little bit pissed, nonplussed, 
and reserving one's judgment on one
you can trust. Who is you, of course. I hope
you know: you can trust that one. I do. 
You must. Sure wayfarers grow unsure
upon unsure ways, but that's only
'cause that's the responsible thing
to have done. 
 
Only in ways made careful and sure
do we find and recall irresponsible ways 
are fun.