Winter 1993 • Vol. XV No. 1 Poetry |

More or Less a Sorrow

What do I see? The lightless past. It's talk. It kept us going between lovemaking. And while I was not you I discovered how truly fascinating you were, bleaching your hair and removing your underwear for me as much as for you, gestures I took seriously all the way back to their beginnings in parody and on TV. But after we went all that way I found a heart on a stick, hoping among the fresh desert sage, and even then it was great to be alone. Somewhere between the middleand the end of our long talk we ended up inside, touched but never seen which we must have had trouble believing in, tender as it was, otherworldly, like an idea utterly devoid of meaning, the pure feeling of coming outdoors, finding no one watching, nothing moving in the steady wind. The rest of the time I felt was always a premonition of my first night alone, the phantom hotel of my forties, this helpless country. If ever I was ready to live a life, by evening what have I done? I hurt you, all over nothing, a trifle

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