To You, from Your Secret Admirer

I love the conversations we have

after making love—of course it’s just me, making

love to myself, talking to you,

loving you—though I do not really

know you, so I guess not loving you—

craving the dream of knowing you.

“When will I be able to scream with you?!”

I moan. “I am screaming, I am screaming,” I moan, very

quiet. Afterwards, breathing in

the fragrance on my fingers, I tell you that

I love the smell with a tender love, it is so

sweet, so nectar, as I’ve loved with a strong

love the smell of semen, with those

working animals in it,

those snapping rippling tails! I want

to go with you

somewhere I have not

been—and just lie, in a bed

for days, sometimes eat, sometimes

swim, I am so tired of not looking at you,

I want to gaze at you with a day-long

gaze. The barriers down! The doors off their

hinges! After coming, and coming,

as if with you, I miss you more.

I want you hour and hour in my line of

sight, I want to sing with you to

dance with you and sleep with you in the

still (sho dote’n shoby doe) of the nii-iiight