Something

 I approach with such
a careful tremor, always
I feel the finally foolish

question of how it is,
then, supposed to be felt,
and by whom.
 I remember

once in a rented room on
27th street, the woman I loved
then, literally, after we

had made love on the large
bed sitting across from
a basin with two faucets, she

had to pee but was nervous,
embarrassed I suppose I
would watch her who had but

a moment ago been completely
open to me, naked, on
the same bed.
 Squatting, her

head reflected in the mirror,
the hair dark there, the 
full of her face, the shoulders,

sat spread-legged, turned on
one faucet and shyly pissed.
 What
love might learn from such a sight.

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