Tuesday, February 26, 2008



So often, when I think of what has passed
Between us on some weekend, I just sigh:
So much I didn’t do or say, so much
I did or said I now wish I had not.
I have no gift for taking hints, you know
By now, so please just tell me what to do.
So many weekends, like the first, the last,
I live in each brief moment, wonder why
I can’t retain an overview. Your touch,
Your skin against my own, your weight, the hot
Breath in my ear, your hands and where they go:
For all my faults, my body sings for you.
My failures pass before my eyes, I see
How much, in my life’s mess, you mean to me.


I laugh aloud, my love, and I can sense
A stiffening above the waist, a look:
Not fear, but dread that you might be again
The butt of my enjoyment. How I wish
That I could spare you all such doubt, relent,
Not laugh
or make my laugh an open book.
The thought that I might wound you, man of men,
Is torture to me—I am all contrition;
Do believe at least no harm is meant.
Who else has been so patient, such a cook,
So sweet and funny, passionate? Well, one…
But that’s all over now, and my condition

That I laugh at allI owe to you.
That gift alone has made me something new.


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