An Honest Description Of Myself With A Glass Of Whiskey At An Airport, Let Us Say, In Minneapolis

My ears catch less and less of conversations, and my eyes have weakened,
though they are still insatiable.

I see their legs in miniskirts, slacks, wavy fabrics.

Peep at each one separately, at their buttocks and thighs, lulled by the
imaginings of porn.

Old lecher, it's time for you to the grave, not to the games and
amusements of youth.

But I do as I have always done: compose scenes of this earth under
orders from the erotic imagination.

It's not that I desire these creatures precisely; I desire everything, and
they are like a sign of ecstatic union.

It's not my fault that we are made so, half from disinterested con-
templation, half from appetite.

If I should accede one day to Heaven, it must be there as it is here,
except that I will be rid of my dull senses and my heavy bones.

Changed into pure seeing, I will absorb, as before, the proportions of
human bodies, the color of irises, a Paris street in June at dawn, all of it
incomprehensible, incomprehensible the multitude of visible things.

Czelsaw Milosz