To you that i write
your senses i did not
glassy , leered into post-suicidal rain
droplets merely bounce off
my days

there need not be wonted discourse
to you that i do not ask
old and ancient feminine pride
you of moth-eaten libraries
i merely do not rest there

much as silent provoked
you of misty solicitude
this eerie silence i refuse
that it will not let me be
the tiger that never found me

what of flesh in men foretold
in women wriggling against party walls
what of scraping trash off my cities
duino elegies, psychedelia, teenage wasteland
what of him - your vaginal repose
self pity loved many
this time, me.