in the shower,
i pretend that the burning hot
water
raining down on my body
are your soft and callous fingers
warm and wet
july heat;
seep through
my skin.

i arch my back, push my ******* toward the
low hanging ceiling
and i pretend that the water
hitting my throat
are your lips
kissing my neck
carefully.
i pretend that the steam is your breath
escaping,
but then i open my eyes and i am
alone
and it is cold winter not the summer *****
of July.

"let me use the shower!"
someone yells.
i pull the water to a stop, and it trickles
as the feel of your kisses dwindle
in January
chill.

I wear
your grey
woollen mittens,
the ones

you can make
into gloves
by pulling over
the fingers

to make complete;
soft, thick,
but warm; neat.
I can sense you near

with them on;
an imaginary pulse
moves along
beside mine.

You felt the cold;
although didn't say
as such
or not

over much;
your hands
and fingers
seeking shelter

within the wool,
rubbing against
the fibre, skin
on softness,

warmth like
a kind of drug,
seeping in.
I wear your grey

woollen mittens,
my fingers fitting
where yours once did,
the feel of you

in the wool's soft memory;
the fibre’s hold,
keeping you warm,
my son,

keeping to warm
against the cold.
The mittens seem fresh;
not worn thin or aged

or coming unwoven
as some things do.
I wear your grey mittens,
have them close,

neat and touching.
I wish they were you.

Most people hold on
to something burning them for
that last bit of warmth.
I learned all too well how
to let go, and if you
scorch me, I will drop you.

Most people spend time daydreaming, I
have never dared idle away time like
that, because thinking
of what will make me
happier than
anything hurts so badly
I have forgotten how to truly
want anything-
I dare not remember.

Most people are not me, and
most people will probably not trick
you into caring for them, until
when you inevitably
hurt me, or I
do it for you, it will pain you, electricity
crackling down whatever
it is ties us together, burning
as I will not let anyone
do to me.

Don't you understand?

Before you can make a change
you must first feel you are worthy,
feel you deserve that change.

Don't you understand?

I am a river-stone, swept smooth
by the currents of life around
and the hundreds of feet above.

How can a stone practice
anything but acceptance?

Put your finger
along there
Jane said
gently

and she opened
her hands
to form
a kind of cup

and there
was the butterfly
yellowish with white
it opened and closed

its wings
feel the smoothness
she said
I focused

on her palms
the skin
thinking how lucky
the butterfly was

to land there
I gently touched
its wings
with my finger

gently so as not
to make it
fly off
she was intense

gazing at my finger
the wings opening
and closing  
my finger

was a mere
breath away
from touching
her skin

the warmth
of her palms
I leaned in closer
could smell

apples or fresh air
and her dark eyes
turned on me
and I looked back

at the butterfly
and stroked its
wings again
it flapped

and flew off
and I watched it
go passed
her dark hair

her eyes following it
in the air
and I followed
her hair

the dark and straight
the opened necked blouse
the green skirt
isn't it beautiful?

she said
yes very much so
I said
gazing at

the line of her neck
the area
where her hair
and collar

didn't meet
the jawline
and she
was looking up

at the sky
where the butterfly
flittered amongst
nearby flowers

at the foot
of the Downs
so gentle their wings
she said

she imitated
a butterfly
with her hands
the thumbs

hooked together
flapping her hands
out and in
and looked at them

then at me
should I stroke
the wings?
I said

she smiled
flapping
her hands slowly
so I did

stroking slowly
and gently
the outer line
of palm

with my finger
and she gazed at me
then at my finger
her small tongue

at the corner
of her mouth
beyond her
the butterfly

flittered off
the white and yellow
exchanging
as it went away

my finger
moving up and down
then slowly
moving

like the butterfly
a little bit away.

The excerpt below is from an interview Philip Roth gave to Daniel Sandstrom, the cultural editor at Svenska Dagbladet, for publication in Swedish translation in that newspaper, and in its original English in the Book Review of the New York Times (March 1, 2014).

It was laid out in normal article (paragraph) form, but I chose to re-present here, line by line, sentence by sentence, for it struck me as I first read it, as a prose poem, and a source of inspiration for me.  But then I realized, I could not improve upon his words, just risk diminishing them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“The struggle with writing is over” is a recent quote. Could you describe that struggle, and also, tell us something about your life now when you are not writing?

Everybody has a hard job.
All real work is hard.
My work happened also to be undoable.
Morning after morning for 50 years,
I faced the next page
defenseless and unprepared.
Writing for me was a feat of self-preservation.
If I did not do it, I would die.

So I did it.
Obstinacy, not talent, saved my life.
It was also my good luck that
happiness didn’t matter to me
and I had no compassion for myself.
Though why such a task
should have fallen to me I have no idea.
Maybe writing protected me
against even worse menace.

Now?
Now I am a bird sprung from a cage
instead of (to reverse Kafka’s famous conundrum)
a bird in search of a cage.
The horror of being caged has lost its thrill.
It is now truly a great relief,
something close to a sublime experience,
to have nothing more
to worry about than death.
-------------------------------------------------------------­--­---

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/03/16/books/review/my-life-as-a-writer.html?_r=0