that must be why i work
my fingers to the bone, the judgment,
it will fall heavy later
among the politicians, popes and poets,
the greedy men and empty grass,
leaves of mud and women; like me
always on their knees-
who only tried to love as
you loved

solicitude is hard but
you're harsher

next time we're together, please
put me to work or set me loose in a crowd
where romance doesn't fit or isn't apt
and unresponsively, I'll promise you
i won't learn a thing from it

if you'll promise to teach me

i am so sick of the bourgeois boys who
haven't read catallus or understood him
and when you write me back
the script is cursive like cambridge - judgmental
so next time, when you want to
come into my room, i'll be primed to
wipe up the tears and arm you with my paranoia
i give it freely so you can go and fuck yourself

but right at this moment i understand
you're hanging in the best you can
so am i

i am seasick and the room's escaping