Found Poem from pages 12-13 of John Updike's Thirteenth Novel

I could not possibly need convincing, when shopping a wide selection--and smooth skins--I can,
And do, wonder in the same number of calories as you. And then my unhappiness is insubstantial,
Knowing it only from a can. Who he is, and where we are lovegazing together, really grates your beets
When, muttering about the gem of a vegetable he was, the fat man has stopped pretending to be asleep.

For the most inspired work of Narcissus, I needed another you. One I had found in a book--insubstantial,
Imagined on the becalmed waters of the ferocious sea of my seeking, reflecting back the blue sunshine.
A gem of a carrot grows through a keyhole or a cast-off ring, like a versatile root spreads in your sleeping
Heavy, next to a spoiled man. In my middling years would I go this far? Afforded the rank of the earth?

In his gross voice, he has the temerity to tell of a cyclist's weekend of splitting his pants. The sunshine
Benefaction for his blindness. He needn't fear for his life, my desire being longer, hot and fresh enough
To eat. His personal "achievements" on the waves of air. Wholly disintegrate the dignified useful life in the earth.
Covered now with blue in green moss, lichen aging in millimeters. Interchangeably used for the ranting miniaturist

Bemoaning her in-grown state here descending into revenge's cake. Again, rice-powdered regrets aren't enough.
Called upon are the ripped hibiscus, the promise-packing punch, and we will change again into being, for a moment, Enough. Day in and day out, the tote bag of love is used. Interminably, for aging each other--miniaturists
Ourselves should be in every woman's rotation beyond the two, tired centerpieces of a frozen wedding cake.

The strokes I am tempted not to take, for both our sake, holding onto our pets, champagne splits, these moments
Are pulled out after the first year. After our own genteel atrocities of coldness, when to be sick all over again, in the air Spun scarf. Indoors beckons with a fresh bouquet by one beating the sweetness into the typical sponge cake
Over which the human pilot has resumed the controls from a moon-haunted silence to make granita, not grudges

Like me, thinking that my solitary rebellion was fully-weaned. Your understanding proves it yet substantial as air.
I could not possibly need convincing, promising everything, my mind, my body's secrets to who will listen--That I can.
Looking towards me, you are spurned into auto-pilot again, into moon-haunted silence to make granita, grudges
Toward the same face at thirty, glaring. As you grate your beets, your heart, where we are together lovegazing.

The writer Annie Dillard has said that turning a text into a poem doubles that poem's context. "The original meaning remains intact," she writes, "but now it swings between two poles [or two people.]"