I will not go to the books or the river.
They are taken to me.
I will not go to the women
for they are few and far away.
My demon doesn’t appear at night;
he imposes on my shadows
and on my lover’s many faces.
These are my small semblances of truth:
I steal from his bucket of quarters,
I let him into my bed. He sends
me to the river where the hands
of the drowning begin and end, begin
and end. I’ve come here only to give
away the nearness of these ills.