Hunger and Sex

I am always hungry
and wanting to have
sex. This is a fact.
If you get right
down to it the new
unprocessed peanut
butter is no damn
good and you should
buy it in a jar as
always in the
largest supermarket
you know. And
I am an enemy
of change, as
you know. All
the things I
embrace as new
are in
fact old things,
re-released: swimming,
the sensation of
being dirty in
body and mind,
Summer as a time
to do nothing and
make no money.
Prayer as a last
resort. Pleasure
as a means,
and then a
means again
with no ends
in sight. I am
absolutely in opposition
to all kinds of
goals. I have
no desire to know
where this, anything
is getting me.
When the water
boils I get
a cup of tea.
Accidentally I
read all the
works of Proust.
It was Summer.
I was there.
So was she. I
write because
I would like
to be used for
years after
my death. Not
only my body
will be compost
but the thoughts
I left during
my life. During
my life I was
a woman with
brown eyes. Out
the window
is a crooked
silo. Parts
of your
body I think
of as stripes
which I have
learned to
love along. We
swim naked
in ponds and
I write behind
your back. My thoughts
about you are
not exactly
forbidden, but
exalted because
they are useless,
not intended
to get you
because I have
you and you love
me. It's more
like a playground
where I play
with my reflection
of you until
you come back
and into the
real you I
get to sink
my teeth. With
you I know how
to relax. And
so I work behind
your back. Which
is lovely.
Nature
is out of control
you tell me and
that's what's so
good about
it. I'm immoderately
in love with you,
knocked out by
all your new
white hair.

Why shouldn't
something
I have always
known be the
very best there
is. I love you
from my
childhood,
starting back
there when
one day was
just like the
rest, random
growth and
breezes, constant
love, a sandwich
in the middle of
the day,
a tiny step
in the vastly
conventional
path of
the Sun. I
squint. I
wink. I
take the
ride.