Irene loves a man

    who is afraid of sex——

    she's attended

    to everything，

    said it was okay，

    held me until I slept.

    She says， Why don't you just

    not think about it？

    But I want to know

    every sensation，

    nothing untouched，

    though I pull my hand away

    once she's found it

    I can't be around a woman

    too long，

    too much.

    I say， I was mistreated.

    She says， A cup of tea？

    I say， I can't start a thing

    and then

    describe the kind

    of thing I'd start.

    We talk about ballrooms，

    long sleeves and sashes，

    say someday

    we should go somewhere

    though we can't think

    of anywhere

    and then I say abruptly，

    I've never loved

    hard enough

    to be loved back.

    I say it as if I've had enough

    of the whole goddamn

    world and will never

    be satisfied.

    I'm looking

    at the wall.

    She's looking out

    the window because

    she needs

    to be somewhere.

    Later， I leave a note：

    Sorry for the difficulties.

    Meaning： how come

    you don't leave？

    I've never told this story.

    Even at the moment

    of dying，

    I would say

    it was someone else's.