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Poem	All the endings in my life rise up against me like that sea of troubles Shakespeare mixed with metaphors; like Vikings in their boats singing Wagner, like witches burning at the stake-- I submit to my fate. I know beginnings, their sweetnesses, and endings, their bitternesses-- but I do not know continuance-- I do not know the sweet demi-boredom of life as it lingers, of man and wife regarding each other across a table of shared witnesses, of the hand-in-hand dreams of those who have slept a half-century together in a bed so used and familiar it is rutted with love. I would know that before this life closes, a soulmate to share my roses-- I would make a spell with long grey beard hairs and powdered rosemary and rue, with the jacket of a tux for a tall man with broad shoulders, who loves to dance; with one blue contact lens for his bluest eyes; with honey in a jar for his love of me; with salt in a dish for his love of sex and skin; with crushed rose petals for our bed; with tubes of cerulean blue and vermilion and rose madder for his artist's eye; with a dented Land-Rover fender for his love of travel; with a poem by Blake for his love of innocence revealed by experience; with soft rain and a bare head; with hand-in-hand dreams on Mondays and the land of fuck on Sundays; with mangoes, papayas and limes, and a house towering above the sea. Muse, I surrender to thee. Thy will be done, not mine. If this love spell pleases you, send me this lover, this husband, this dancing partner for my empty bed and let him fill me from now until I die. I offer my bones, my poems, my luck with roses, and the secret garden I have found walled in my center, and the sunflower who raises her head despite her heavy seeds. I am ready now, Muse, to serve you faithfully even with a graceful dancing partner-- for I have learned to stand alone. Give me your blessing. Let the next epithalamion I write be my own. And let it last more than the years of my life-- and without the least strain-- two lovers bareheaded in a summer rain.
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