What the Bones Know

Remembering the past

And gloating at it now,

I know the frozen brow

And shaking sides of lust

Will dog me at my death

To catch my ghostly breath.

 

          I think that Yeats was right,

          That lust and love are one.

          The body of this night 

          May beggar me to death,

          But we are not undone

          Who love with all our breath.

 

                     I know that Proust was wrong,

                     His wheeze: love, to survive,

                     Needs jealousy, and death

                     And lust, to make it strong

                     Or goose it back alive.

                     Proust took away my breath.

 

                                 The later Yeats was right

                                 To think of sex and death

                                 And nothing else. Why wait

                                 Till we are turning old?

                                 My thoughts are hot and cold.

                                 I do not waste my breath.