My bowels tell me
	The time is almost come,
	When once more I shall go
	To pick her up,
	And we shall have our date.
	That full, queasy tightness
	In my gut
	Warns me the smell
	Of her perfume is nigh,
	That her laugh is but
	Moments hence.
	I fancy myself a bomber pilot,
	An astronaut, or
	A surgeon about to begin
	A delicate operation--
	Not someone on my way
	To see a girl
	Whom I profess to love.
	What do I fear?
	Why do my innards
	Boil and burn within me?
	She is flesh and blood,
	The same as I.
	She even says she loves me.
	I say I love her, too;
	Do I?  Do I really?
	Is love a case of
	The running trots?
	Hardly!
	Something is wrong,
	Wrong with me, with her,
	Wrong with all the world.
	I am afraid, and I am
	Afraid to be afraid.
	But here is her street,
	Her house, her door;
	I ring the bell
	And stand alone,
	Desperately dissolving
	The lump which clogs
	My pulsing throat.
	She comes, and we
	Begin again our game of love,
	While my stomach
	Churns its fearful way.

2/21/71


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