who am i thinkin of

(for beverly) when i write i think of my friends the people of my visions but how cd i presume to think of men who leave so little behind i find them in my wash cloth in the dirty dishes by my unmade bed when i write i erase these dark halls lone subway stops the car followin too closely how cd i presume to address my self to men they leave so little behind & still i dont remember. once a poet delivered valentino on a tie-dyed sheet w/ tequila passion the sheik gallopin a desert for me another sketched me in the midst of bougainvillea another saturated my basement with painted skeletons long ago a poet telephoned from ny to have breakfast in seattle i’ve waded in hidden creeks with the men i remember the others had no sense of humor