Even at that first stretch, as I unfold

Myself from this once-white bed,

I can feel from my shoulders the absence

Of wings. Haunches of tension, relaxed;

Supple curves and the arch of my torso,

Bicep you could bite; my abs, just morsels

Of perfection. I am exquisitely painted:

But I assure you, nothing divine about it.


Stirred again, I am as ancient as Babylon.

And this lover, this tender, woebegone

Victim beside me: he is as old as wine,

Present in one tableau or another for five

Millennia, below and before me, keen

Eyed, soft-skinned; lips, whispering his need.

I lay here, almost as if fallen from some

Loving height, to make these beds my home.


I am twenty-one. And the nakedness I bring

Is new to me; it’s newer still to him,

And even in dreaming it fascinates his own,

Bareness upon bareness, dreamt upon.

I wear this life like the torn-up vest

He dragged from me, once clung to my chest

In parody of him. And, now he’s sweet,

I drape myself in shameful thoughts, and leave.



Another adolescent attempt. Bless my silly young silly self. 


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