I don't want to be that, old, that one,
unborn, wrecked skeleton, sack of flesh.
I don't want that old tongue of mine
to invent epic happiness
in the regret of age and unseized chance,
or to feel knobbed fingers furl in my hand
then find a path under my dress to feel itself
and set adrift a raft of imaginary bliss,
a crystal of what ifs--some counterfeit reality
that has nothing to do with me, with how I lived--
the weakened heart to demand, forgive!

Here is my fairweather darling, all young.
Her limbs are like candles, and clean;
the muscles model on bone an oasis, a home.
This shape, living, locks me in: gestures,
sighs, breasts that crave embrace,
lanterns of warm skin,
its beauty live, within.