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.