"I don't learn from my own poems"

Learning to find quiet- beneath myself I
reach grasping to be saved
from your sense of accounting (a mere strut),
till I find goodness in some careful wine
then mistake it perhaps for the crimson of your cheek-
daylight peers with its kinding smirk.
(And to think I wanted to stay a week)

Still breathing-barely-breaking the yolk, it watches you:
review slender phrases titled with a label maker- "Emotions"--
a shield of your accustomed rationality.
I find you stuttering, sobbing, sighing
trying to keep sobering but still blatantly sheltering.
you told me a paraphrase of the memoir would do a life justice,
I watch you still squirm for some sense of attachment.