Poem to Self

Who will love you now?
Now, after the night leaves
larger shadows for the rest of the day.
All the good lines have been used on easy women.
Yes, of course
there exists nothing as poetic
as the sway of lovely hips,
vase-like and warm-blooded.
But there is also nothing
as poetic as the empty room
you spend your nights
in longing
and dull yellow lamplight.

In the peace that comes
after shallow weeping,
it is only a poor man
who knows to reuse the music
of seashell beach symphonies
for the language of hollow hearts.
Sell glimpses of the moon
to the drunk and the blind
in a few sullen lines of poetry.
When you speak softly
it will become clear
only the narcotic pleasure of the verse
can awaken those sleepy years more
to the weight of gravity
or bring to clouded eyes
the tooth-colored shine from the stars.