The taste of fruit, the taste of water

The taste of fruit, the taste of water,
something to make me feel better.
The art and words I cannot master
despite the years of study, after
the myriad libraries I have entered.
She tells me I should come back later

just to see her. Then when it's later
I can't remember the taste of water
or the way the golden light enters
her room like a liquid. She's better
than whatever pleasure I knew after
my first love. I have yet to master

memories, I have yet to master
form and color. It's getting later
in the evening, a little bit after
nine. Her skin is covered with water,
she showers so she'll feel better
than earlier. She sleeps to enter

dreams, I dream that I have entered
her the way the violinist masters
strings and sound. I'm feeling better
now that I've put it off until later,
now that I've cleansed her with water.
But misfortune confounds us after

making love, I'm confused after
she sits quietly listening. I enter
rooms like air or light, I'm water
flowing through a stanza, mastered
poesy recited. Yet now or later
she reveals herself as the better

writer, better thinker, better
sleeping creature. I am after
knowledge and faith, but the later
it gets I don't know which enters
and which exits. She is the master
of the terrible taste of water,

I'm no better even when I enter
communion with her as my master,
when later I still taste the water.