The Poet Tells the Truth

I need to cry my shame; I tell that to you
so you might love me, might cry for me
on an evening of nightingales
with a dagger, with kisses, and with you.

I want to kill the only witness
to the assassination of my flowers
and turn my moans and sweat
into an endless mound of tough wheat.

May it never, never end—the skein
of I-love-you, you-love-me, always incensed
with decrepit sun and old moon.

May what you don’t give and what I don’t ask
of you be left for death, which doesn’t leave
even a shadow on agitated flesh.