"Why?
To diffuse the intensity of our second true meeting,
we staged our third outside, the whole time on the weather's
verge, the salt light.
Less facile with language, we let other wild things
take on the stirring.
That wind that kept sounding like rain, ravens.
The sleek bee landing in his bottle of orange juice,
distracted, but did not stop him,
as he read his poem in the same husky voice he uses to compose.
And my turn?
The black and traversing my manuscript, distracted,
but did not stop me nor did the other bee hovering, nor even
his hand as he brushed the bee from my hair.
He kisses Margaret.
He knows when girls want him to kiss them.
He can tell.
I want him too, even though I'm not a girl.
Harpists need their fingertip calluses to stay hard.
They can never go swimming.
Here, where the stream runs over, the man made dam.
The ruin of a folly stands, limestone
that would seem even colder next to his soft skin.
I pretend to say, I would like to be kissed here.
I feature his answer.
Yeah, we should try it.
I'm old, old enough to be his mother.
I've said I don't want some mother-son configuration
with you, William.
He said, oh, you're not.
You're not.
Later on to myself, I say to him your device goes just
as fall winter, are every bit as pretty as spring summer.
In fact, more so.
So brunettes, like his hue, i.e.
her, are every bit as pretty as blondes.
In fact, his Margaret, more so.
This is news.
At the time, I said to him, you have
got to start thinking in metres, not syllables.
His dedication to her reads, these words are yours.
Bullshit.
They're his.
Her words are what she innanely says.
When we, for real, discussed his sonnet,
he said I stole that line from you, which that
across your mouth.
Listen, I was telling you, kiss me.
Here's the couplet, how delicate the matter between us,
the issue, sweet-- the top of your penis.
I've heard that rhyme.
Why?
Because this happens merely unto air.
You, I mean, you, William, you write yourself
down between one sleep and the next.
For whom?
Rain on your window, you see rain on your rooftop.
I see, I, Catholic, willingly take your intellect to heart,
but the bed in the other room pauses.
My streaking windows text I cast in words, Hazelwood,
last treasury of the last chance I might ever want.
I can't tell which you are, ephemera, recogniser.
Don't you see that I long to fill you with erections
that I gasp to behold you Presbyterian
in pain of my own."
Last one, "I wrote it.
I wrote it, wrote it is too.
Painful I did not write I never want to see you again.
I wrote it.
It is too painful to see you right now.
I, he, wrote me back, I understand.
I really do.
I'm not upset.
That was upsetting.
Where is your anger, man.
You have lost me, your great and former mentor.
He signed himself, your friend then first name, last name.
Now.
When I walk the dunes or go downtown
for errands, the post office, the store,
my reminder goes to avoid him will be hard,
but it will help me the most.
Your rhythmic shoulders, he does not trip on curbs,
he does not crash."