At a birthday dinner, a painter says sex is like death,
that we all want to die, & she asks me why 
I think this might be. She is developing a glossary
for these wonders, found in nature & in the abstraction of our bodies. 
I carry death. I am flattened against a seascape
channeling words for my hallucinations. 
Above me a sail lifts, spreads its heft like a boastful wing.
Its mast roots into me, pierces me with wind.
This is desire: a cross between that which fixes us into place 
& sets us aflight. I can hardly bear to look it in the face.
In the morning, snow lies flat along the rooftops 
like one hundred bed sheets, white flags taunting me.