My Love's Manners In Bed Are Not

I Know This Body Is Impatient. I Know I Constitute Only A Meager Voice And Mind. Yet I Loved, I Love. I Want No Sentimentality. I Want No More Than Home.

I Will Go To The Garden. I Will Be A Romantic. I Will Sell Myself In Hell, In Heaven Also I Will Be.

As I Get Older, I Recognize That My Thinking About Poetry May Or May Not Have Anything Actively To Do With My Actual Work As A Poet. This Strikes Me As No Thing Cynically Awry But Rather Seems Again Instance Of That Hapless Or Possibly Happy Fact, We Do Not As Humans Seem Necessarily Aware Of What We Are Physically Or Psychically Doing At All!

My Nature Is A Quagmire Of Unresolved Confessions.

The Lady Has Always Moved To The Next Town And You Stumble On After Her.