I think I'll read one more poem before I read a few new poems,
and I guess that'll be it.
This is called "Not Dying."
These wrinkles are nothing.
These gray hairs are nothing.
This stomach, which sags with old food, these bruised
and swollen ankles, my darkening brain, they are nothing.
I am the same boy my mother used to kiss.
The years change nothing.
On windless summer nights, I feel those kisses slide
from her dark lips far away.
And in winter, they float over the frozen pines
and arrive covered with snow.
They keep me young.
My passion for milk is uncontrollable.
Still, I am driven by innocence.
From bed to chair, I crawl and back again.
I shall not die.
The grave result and token of birth, my body,
remembers and holds fast.
OK.
Now I'll read a few new poems.