Irene loves a man

      who is afraid of sex-- 

            she's attended



to everything,

      said it was okay,

            held me until I slept.



She says, Why don't you just

      not think about it?

            But I want to know



every sensation,

      nothing untouched,

            though I pull my hand away



once she's found it

      I can't be around a woman

            too long,



too much.

      I say, I was mistreated.

            She says, A cup of tea?



I say, I can't start a thing

      and then

            describe the kind



of thing I'd start.

      We talk about ballrooms,

            long sleeves and sashes,



say someday 

      we should go somewhere

            though we can't think



of anywhere

      and then I say abruptly,

            I've never loved



hard enough

      to be loved back.

            I say it as if I've had enough



of the whole goddamn

      world and will never

            be satisfied.



I'm looking

      at the wall.

            She's looking out



the window because

      she needs 

            to be somewhere.



Later, I leave a note:

      Sorry for the difficulties.

            Meaning: how come



you don't leave?

      I've never told this story.

            Even at the moment

			

of dying, 

      I would say

            it was someone else's.