A cloud surrounds me lately formed of grief
and pale anxieties: the deaths of those
I never knew; the murder of belief
in him with whom I shared a lively prose;
the slow demise of infant love between
my teenage son and his first favorite friend.
Events this month are wearying and mean.
The weight of living presses, and I bend.

I think I have to watch myself in case
I act impulsively. Impatient for
a cure I may look warmly at your face,
appropriate a kiss or even more –
I urge restraint upon myself, but know
I’ll lie with you unless your eyes say no.