33 is an acute age; it is half of 66

and one-third of 99; I don’t want

to live a century here, anyhow.

It detectably has no relation to 3.

 

Fervent dreams restored on the

eve of my thirty-third birthday ;

Obsessed responsibilities took

amoebic shapes but the old wine

bottles preserved them airtight.

I read white was an ocular mirage;

and 33 years of reality was dark.

My coyness is no more taciturn;

I draw maps of menstrual timidity  

and start for a beguiling jaunt.

 

33 is the feral age; you pretend to

be matured and your saturations

inundate islands of silences; It is

modestly connected to 3 merely.