The time has finally come
to take myself seriously.
But I don’t have the energy.
I measure my life by other people’s milestones.
All this evasion, absorption and accumulation
provides a foundation in tradition,
a rich vein of consolation.
Art, like death, makes life more interesting.
And without it: as unthinkable as love
without pity, or a selfless eulogy.
But the bondage of receptivity
compares most unfavorably
with the selflessness of productivity.
We lie side by side, basking in the warm glow
Of an attraction tempered by considerations
Of age and failure. The window of opportunity narrows
As irresolution asserts itself. Perhaps you would be offended,
Puzzled and disgusted by such an intrusion.
It might be asking too much of anybody:
To stanch this thirst, no longer sweet,
And dwindling into hesitation.