There are things unbearable.

It’s good to be neuter.
I want to have meaningless legs.
There are things unbearable.
One can evade them a long time.
Then you die.

The oceans remind me
of your room.
There are things unbearable.
Scorns, princes, this little size
of dying.

My personal poetry is failure.
I do not want to be a person
I want to be unbearable.
Lover to lover, the greenness of love.
Cool, cooling.

Earth bears no such plant.
Who does not end up
a female impersonator?
Drink all the sex there is.
Still die.

I tempt you.
I blush.
There are things unbearable.
Legs, alas.
Legs die.

Rocking themselves down,
crazy slow,
some ballet term for it- fragment of foil, little
spin, little drunk, little do, little oh, alas.

Anne Carson, "Stanzas, Sexes, Seductions"