Here we go again,
up the narrow stair
of fall, and I'm full of nerve,
have to have you, I'm looking for you
everywhere. It's true
I like men too much, and when
I see one in the street
I used to know—starting to be
bald, in a raincoat eight years old,
worry a lit fish swimming across
his face—I could nearly wrap myself
around him, I'm all too ready. . . .
But I'm sorry! It was for you
I meant to do these things, for you
to unbutton my blouse without a care—
Not so difficult, now the sun is tart,
the river the very color of cold,
November on her way to winter.
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