On this night I dream we accompany our child 

to the ritual baths, built

deep into the ground, below the vision

of those involved in daily life.  So none

unschooled in congress

can see the lovers in their profound

rites, examining their bodies, 

learning nakedness, 



I awake to the stroke of a hand,

move my body flush to my old man.





What wisdom can we leave our children about love.

It is our generation which first exposed

our sores to the air, formed elegant tattoos 

from our scars, wrenching joy from pain 

that danger shows.  We are sitting in the cafe,

watching our daughters walk past the men 

they might have loved and meeting 

mirrors of their misery, those 

who cannot give them joy,

and making the wrong men






This woman, whose breasts

tumble from her heart,  takes her measure

in another's eye ‑  the greater

he is, the larger the reflection,

and the farther away 

the more of herself she sees


And in the evening she makes love

to her own body ‑ washing her hair,

massaging her fingers before  

her manicure




And of that man whose voice

is honey hunger I know 

nothing; of his flat ‑

the living room

with its two arm chairs

facing the music:

receiver, tape deck, 

compact disk, speakers ‑

the wall‑to‑wall record collection

(God he pulls them out as if he knew

where each one was blind folded).  


All those people in all those songs

all alone in their albums





"I slept with Jagger"

my friend from California writes

after years of dreaming

of sleeping with Jagger

"and all the time

I was thinking

of my dream

of sleeping with Jagger"





Why can't Mick get satis

faction?  We were assured

it, or our money



And in bed the other

looks nothing like 

the perfect people 

in movies.  


We have been promised too much

to take our pleasure 

as it comes.





I can't get no 




better than more


Less than all

will not satisfy


When what we want

is possession





In the dark ages before

the Joy of Sex every

touch was its own





Will you teach me love,

She asks.

He turns his back


Thank you.





What do we owe each other in the game of love,

What do we owe ourselves

and what choice do we

have ‑‑ so many people 

in bed with us,

like Russian dolls

one mother inside the other,

or action shots on low speed film

endless shadows seeming

to move as one.




How interchangeable are genitalia

and how specific desire





Obsessions are easy:

loving someone who doesn't

love back.  So pure.

Hitting ball after ball

into an empty court

you don't expect to return


Then it comes back

and the game becomes





moving, changing, 






The closer you get

the less you see

the more you become


The more you become me

the less you are

a lover


Keep your distance

stay near





What if you fall

into a warm bath 

of love soup

and as you lie there, sated,

the soup cools, congeals,

catches you in its clammy

vegetable grasp




The oldest woman I know,

lectures in rest homes on Truth.


At the movies,

the scene turns sexy

she clasps her breast, whispers

over and again, "O, my heart, my



And Yeats ends hungering

for a girl in his arms





You awakened this poem


I sought you for that

thought of that shudder

strength you would open

that wonder

you didn't know







A young man in my dream

serves me lentil soup

with a deep smile

I am thrilled to share.

I was hungry and you fed me

pottage, I say, and see

he looks like the boy I loved

many years away,

like the orderly

who cared for my father

with warm gentle hands

those days he was dying.