It's over， love. Look at me pushing fifty now，
Hair like grave-grass growing in both ears，
The piles and boggy prostate， the crooked penis，
The sour taste of each day's first lie，
And that recurrent dream of years ago pulling
A swaying bead-chain of moonlight，
Of slipping between the cool sheets of dark Along a body like my own， but blameless.
What good's my cut-glass conversation now，
Now I'm so effortlessly vulgar and sad？
You get from life what you can shake from it？
For me， it's g and t's all day and CNN.
Try the blond boychick lawyer， entry level
At eighty grand， who pouts about the overtime，
Keeps Evian and a beeper in his locker at the gym，
And hash in tinfoil under the office fern.
There's your hound from heaven， with buccaneer
Curls and perfumed war-paint on his nipples.
His answering machine always has room for one more Slurred， embarrassed call from you-know-who.
Some nights I've laughed so hard the tears Won't stop. Look at me now. Why now？
I long ago gave up pretending to believe Anyone's memory will give as good as it gets.
So why these stubborn tears？ And why do I dream
Almost every night of holding you again，
Or at least of diving after you， my long-gone，
Through the bruised unbalanced waves？