A LETTER TO MYSELF AS A YOUNG MAN

8 7 R A L E T T E R T O M YS E L F A S A YO U N G M A N W I L M E R M I L L S I. Here in the room that still belongs to you, A room that now does not belong to me, The years that separate us seem to curve As if upon a silver chain that hangs Between today and you. My being here, (The visit home, the doctor’s funeral,) Has drawn the ends that hold the chain together. It makes a catenary smile, and then A single line of yesterday and now Where time runs vertically, then not at all. For once, I see you clearly, eye to eye. You’re sweating in your bed, the windows open, And the cricket chorus hasn’t quite replaced The noise of combine engines in your ears. That’s how it is for you, night after night Beneath a ceiling fan that tries and fails To give you some oblivion against Your being seventeen years old or so. I’m writing now because you’re deep in thought: It seems to you that time has almost stopped And made a quiet place behind your eyes. In fact, my writing you is what you feel. I am the memory you will become, The déjà-vu that catches in your throat And makes you think that everything in life 8 8 M I L L S Y Has happened like a script, already known, Already told in countries of the past. I’m writing now because you’re listening, Entirely present, empty of desire That gnaws you. It’s an animal, I know, The fiercest kind of hunger, ravenous As only teenage men can understand. You feel the sluggish cadences of life, And try to race ahead, impatiently, To find the future and its holiday. But then it keeps elapsing into the past, Behind your back. No matter how you strain Against the flow, its motion sets a pace And carries life along, as if to tell A story from the rhythm it had made Without a single synonym for Time. II. Tomorrow when you look at clouds too much You’ll lose your swath. The cutter bar will dive And hit the biggest ant hill in the field, Clogging the teeth and blade with dirt and grass. You’ll shut the engine down beside a pond, Walk over to the edge, lie down, and let The back of your head and ears sink under water. Your frame will slowly lose the shimmy-shake Of universal joints and the PTO. Beneath the silent brightness of the sky, There won’t be any noise, for once, and clouds That pile above the trees will seem to halt, As if in step with you. While anchored there, You’ll feel the planet turning slowly past. Remember me tomorrow when the clouds Traverse your eye in sync with how you breathe, The up and down. I’m here to tell you, boy, As soon as you can feel the pace, you’ll learn A L E T T E R T O M Y S E L F A S A Y O U N G M A N 8 9 R That ‘‘happen’’ is the finest word around, By chance, a risk, a hazard of the dice, And yet it couldn’t be more definite. The dice are loaded, as they always are. The angel always says, ‘‘Fear not! Abide!’’ The story comes to pass (not running late Or early), arriving when it should, on time. ...