The Question of Lust in Middle Age
Maybe the answer is death.
Maybe death's always the answer.
Here I am: all optic nerve, all black
aperture swelling with light, while the wasp
of you devours any carrion it can
connive. It's like I thrive
on sorrow-such sugar-my gums bleed
from its blades. I can hear the applause
of your sex though it happened
in the wood, by the river,
far from my martini and cats.
I'm that rare warbler one feather
too heavy for flight. Look, there's another hole
in the sky; let's fill it with falling
so I can finally sleep.