tasting of hot water and milk
thinking of you,
how unhealthy it is that I hate everything
I said or everything I wore whenever
I see you.

How on earth do I come to understand
the galaxy of heart and all
my desire,
how, how I wish I could see you all the time
and when I see you I
turn into someone else

whose whole life seems to be consumed
with the face of her, shifting like the rolling sets
on theater stages, clapping on inch-thick
whatever you may most be interested
in.  Like not ending with a preposition,
or who knows
what else.

The drive of my living
has nothing to do
with you.  Who
God knows has nothing to do with me.

What will it be like to live my days
with no unreasonable desire?
No fetching with hands white hot
the smallest live fish
from a cold stream no cold cream

no wind
taking me under the arms in the runway
of the smallest planes, no secret wishes
to meet St. Martin of the Fields
wishes sinewed with iron and weighted
with down.

And you in my mind, your face
and the way of your pen with your paper,
your words strung in the studio
like rosaries or Nepalese flags or no,

like the accidentally best portrait
of the ex-lover,
having to be displayed, having
to be seen, having still a grip
on the heart.

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