February 21, 1994

I want you to grow old with me

i.e. to catch up to me
as I am becoming increasingly weary
of writing poems to you

the poems have
discolored my life

I'm tired of the mysterious truth
after I touch you
I'm tired of not knowing what you think about
I'm tired of women who have the same name as you
they don't know that I'm tired of them too

I'm tired of the telephone
of its beige lips
telling me they love me
and that you don't
that you're a figment
in my ear

I don't want my poems to wear out anyone else again
I don't want to die and have this machine at
my bedside holding my hand
draping me with its affectionate black ribbon
wondering who will turn it on when I'm gone
wondering if my soul will become a kiss again.