You wear your body as if without
illusions. You speak of former lovers with some
contempt for their interest in sex.
Wisdom of the spirit, you
imply, lies in condescension and poise.
… Fucking, I can feel
the valve opening, the flood is too much.
Or too little. I am
insatiable, famished by repetition.
Now all you see is that I am luggage
that smiles as it is moved from here
to there. We could have had ecstasies.
In your stray moments, as now in
mine, may what was not
rise like grief before you.