27
	--------------------------------------------------------

	is no different than 26, or 25, or 24
	except now i might as well be 30, and
	my life surrounds me like a cell:
	a cat and a happy job, an iris blooming near the window
	my flesh thick around me, pale as uncooked bacon fat
	my mother greets me in the mirror each morning, 
	sagging and pasty; even hairless, i can't blink her away.

	i waited for music, i waited for love
	i waited for poetry, desire
	i wanted more and more and less and more and more
	until finally i didn't want anything at all,
	just this box, neatly arranged and red inside.
	not cold or hungry or aching or brave
	i am so remote i have no voice, nothing to make me shiver.
	the sun blinds me through this bit of borrowed skin
	to hold me heavy against the golden pacific.