Lucky 13: “… see you see me [at last] …”

I want the love that other lives have got: the 

touching and

stroking in private and public,

and the making-up,

and the passion

and the blissing 

and the kissing

and the dissing 

and the messiness

and the juiciness: goddamnit, that too!

And I want all those things now: all the normal things

I see 

all around me

which she don’t allow me:

never has; now, never will.

And the steps will be dreadful and painful and hurt-ridden,

like the once green shoots of grassy bank now riven 

thoroughly – and how! – with

spring-time shards of 

frosting ice,

so near to my actuality that I can feel in her tones 

the cold and unkind brea[d]th

of her controlling strategies,

sitting right over me rigid

like Old Testament [s]tale.

But the fear of telling it straight at last compares 

little with realities I suffer at this moment 

of roaming 

and bemoaning that quiet and silent 

unlivedness: I want it no more;

I want quite another;

I want to see you – my 

lucky 

13!

I want to see you 

see me … 

… as your lover.



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