There is a poem I have long loved and feared, of a man in decline. I used to fear it was my story. I used to believe the mermaids would not sing to me. But they have. I must be honest about that. I will try to be honest about the rest. Let us go then and take our visit.
How much of his nakedness can a man reveal — to himself, to others? Can we see ourselves from the side, from the back? And of what interest are my entrails to you?
