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Poem	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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