Hockey and poetry, not early passions of mine.
I have slept the day’s cold light irrevocably away
wrapped in the hissing dinosaur heat.

I am lonely. Then,
I am always lonely.

Even with women,
and with the company
of very old friends.

Sports are so silly.
And we all write the same poems.

An old friend told me
she saw an old lover in the supermarket,
searching for dairy.

He smiled when he saw me, she said,
And that seemed enough
for all those years lost.

Nothing is ever enough.
Soon we end up wanting more,
or different, or old.

I read today about a sculptor who had a love affair
with his most famous model. None of his work remains:
just replicas, and legends now a few centuries old.

In bed with her,
or in the studio,
did he desire a new body?