As I grow older my feelings about
this body I live in grow less and less
to resemble the ones represented in this poem.

I have no love
for my body
piled high and out,
loosely muscled, and
loosing so surely so
the gravitational war
of which it has never
truly, or keenly fought.
Scarred and tumbled house
with too much here,
and not enough there.
An open ended testiment
to the weakness of will,
and possible care.
Showing out complete
the ugliness
of my dispair.

(only)

(sometimes)

(momentarily)

Washed.
Beautifully clean
in prone pure tanglings
of limbs and
hot moisture made.
My vision impaired
and elevated to where
most lovely creature
existed, ever I,
40 feet above
the musky air,
does lightly dancing swirl
with grace sublime,
limber fairy fawn,
exposing glow
of power supreme,
basking quietly serene,
only and after
love's lost fleeting release.

(gone)

Then up again.
Off again.
Past mirrors lit
brightly and unkind
peering from
my antilover's eye
at the breast that sag
sadly worn,
with anger,
and hatred,
and pale naked scorn.

©1997