Sunday morning I realized this love
is like a triple engine jumbo jet to Poughkeepsie:
going nowhere, fast. The towels turn grey and lie
like slack wrists in my pitted bathroom-moon,
and even the tints
in our half-price prints
seem to sag against the walls,
turning Titian into Pollock
and Pollock to split-pea soup.
I want to look like Audrey Tautou
even when I turn fifty,
and sell perfume in a mirrored room,
mouth wide, breasts high…
The years pass so slowly by
as winter did when I was ten.
But the years go still and the days go still
and never return again.