lovers in their lonely affair
there is a great lust in my heart: for poetry, & the myriad
of things that inspire it. I imagine her at her daily labors;
she brushes her hair, & that is a poem.
we converse, we discuss the fine art & the flaws of rhyme &
meter & blank passages. we talk about old movies, & we
argue over transgressions with other lovers.
all of these are poems.
as Bonnard painted his beautiful nude wife in the sanctity of
her toilet, so too I invade her aloneness when she has bathed.
she attempts to dry herself, but I take the towel & discard it.
I embrace her savagely, because I have no history of gentleness.
she retains the heat of her bath water; it warms my skin, & her
wetness scalds me. we could fuck right there against the wall,
or with her bent over the sink, but there is a bed nearby…
when it’s over, her whisper wounds the silence – ‘I love you.’
the epiphany of desire which is proclaimed by every woman;
the litany of her heart, so that a man never forgets.
(she gave me everything she had of love,
and bears a cicatrix where her heart used to be.)
once, she crossed the border of sensitivity: ‘do you love me?
maybe I shouldn’t ask.’ I warned her sternly. ‘you attack me
with that as if it were a knife. I can’t answer. I won’t answer!’
she knows I’ve loved before & been hurt, & I’ve had my fill
of suffering. she knows I only stay with her for the sex.
I write too much & exceedingly well,
but I love poorly…