I do not seek you out
For if I do
You say I might get tired of you.
To think I was afraid
You’d be the one to tire while we both still
Warm to the naked thrill
Precisely of that strangeness that has made
For such self-doubt.
I hated those old men
And undiminished love of sex,
The curtains of their skin
Tripping them up at their incautious play,
When out of torpor they
Had woken as ambitious as if in
Their prime again.
Now I myself am old
Our games for such and such a date.
Like bicoastal romance,
In which one night a quarter is the most
Spared to the other coast,
Ours thrives as we stretch out our ignorance:
Men of the world.
Affectionate young man,
Your wisdom feeds
My dried-up impulses, my needs,
With energy and juice.
Expertly you know how to maintain me
At the exact degree
Of hunger without starving. We produce
What warmth we can.
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