This reminded me of the poem you posted a while back by Sharon Olds, Sex Without Love. Here, the poet weeps instead of plunging in to where he knows he will only find emptiness, and not even the joy of acrobatics or the race to the finish line.
“like the partner
in the bed, and not the truth, which is the
single body alone in the universe
against its own best time.”
Each thread in her silken clothes is a poem. He weeps for these treasures he has found.