If Connecticut, Then Fiction
I think it was not fit,
but friction, when his limbs brushed
my back, he was already rushing, running, resisting.
I was writing and he was life,
a teacher; a man whose shirt was always unbuttoned
one button too low. He was showing me how,
in fact, I was wanting you. Now he is not wanting
to know me, now I am growing away from him, now I am
going where I am wanted.
He was younger than you, yet, there was such richness
in rest or rant or wanting. There was my writing.