beginning draft of a poem?

I need some real, honest feedback here... this needs lots of work.

See, I started writing something in the middle of last week and it's a topic that I've generally tried to avoid writing a whole poem about because it feels too tied up in emotions, and I tend only to write about it in veiled terms (and, of course, it has entered my writing, whether I like to admit it or not). Since I've been having a hard time with getting poems out lately*, I decided to go ahead and use the bits that I had started.

So, here's what I've got... (and what Nora already helped me get started with). As for the help, would you pretend that you don't know what the heck I could be writing about and let me know if this poem makes any sense or connects on any level? If you have questions / confusions / suggestions... anything would be helpful (criticism--especially if you find it super weak and sissy--, please and thank you):

...

PLEASE KEEP

Please. She wanted, what I’m sure she wanted, eyes from me:
she wanted, from the back of my eyes, to read
my memories, my admirations, my love—
as if these things pass in streams.
They stall in pools.

She wanted a taste of the delirium and the coldness
—what travels from outside the body in,
as a tub or a pond of ice-water slivers its way in through your toes,
up past your thighs, until
you can’t even feel yourself. You’re gone.

Did she want the dream I had of you?
When I tripped late into the room and your legs were bent up on my bed,
you sat upon my bed, pouring over my handwriting
and all the crisp pages I’d written of your silence; of your smacking
spoons within a mug of chocolate; your body like a white pond in the room.

But, wait. Could she want to look inside this room?
To see your crumpled body never raising head
to laugh or nod. You merely breathed.
Thank God you breathed--that you did without conviction.

She could have seen that which you didn't: my swift glide beyond the doorframe,
ashamed of papers cast along the floor, the pillows
with footprints because there was nowhere else to step.

She’d know what I never before wrote down:
the stale, choking gasps of you and me alone,
pacing cement-walled halls and holding hands,
how we called each other from within our pains.

That these secrets have been tainted.

She’d know we sealed each other inside for a time,
capped like with airtight lids, we painted the glass about us;
that this intimate was all I knew of you.
Reason enough to receive her questions.

I cannot write but in grunts and swallows
about our deaths:
you drowned, but so did I for a time.

In that room, she would see all I become:
a bastard child, covering up pimply legs and goose-bumped arms
as your ghost of a body sweeps beyond me
behind airtight doors.

You leave us alone again to grieve your loss.
Please. Breathe. Keep breathing.

...

[*As for the writer's block (if you can really call it that... I don't think you can), I think that part of the trouble has had to do with my other classes and the excess of work that I need to focus on, but I've also become brainwashed (I believe) into thinking that there's a certain feeling or mood that is often required to initiate a poem. Actually, when the poet Susan Stewart came to my campus last week and gave a lecture about "Poetry and the Feeling of a Thought", I unwillingly latched onto her words about poetic mood... Sorry for that tangent.]