29 April 2008.
[One more poem to go.]
I Hold the Interlude in My Hand and I am No Longer Burned
for Will
He has a dream, I said, as the martinis pulled
us into the leather couch. I don’t need to say
that his dream and me never intersect. I am past
that. I think I am past that. But then we fuck
and I am not past that at all. I am drowning
in that, I am handcuffed in that, I am taking
that in the face at fifty knots. I am never that,
and I am always reminded. Drink enough mead
to kill self-loathing and the rest goes with it.
I am never that, I think, as I write this five
hundred miles away. I cut and I cut and I cut
and now this space is clear, this forest
has no trees, there’s no makeout under cover
of fresh bloom. I am drawn to even more
unreachability. I desire things that will never
make me that. I am not pearls and pressed
collars. My sly grin is a mask. My ring finger
will always be bare. I will never be that.