The way my doctor goes about it
seems to allude that anything is a well
some distance from total drainage.
It is true that my body has endless
things to say to you who touch me
through the sleeve of this day mist.
The earth was made too vain to consider
that any one thing must gones for another
to preen. All of the parts of me keep
reaching like mimosas for touch
and killing themselves. In the last of my most
hopeless weeks in Boston as it was slow
wintering my only pleasure was to drink
glass after glass of orange juice by myself
watching what could have been the end
of my life. But I don’t think I can ever
be finished; I’m in love with far too many
countable things. And there are all their names
to learn. Whatever you say I’ll plant
a thousand flowers to retaliate. Always
you want to be special in your nothing
but there is the pail of your body working
against its own current insisting
with unweary voice there is no end
just water on water on water.