George Stanley
Sex at 62

		for Reg

His head bent toward me, he demanded,
"Lots of kissing, when I make love" -- I could
let my mouth be devoured, I could be held --
back & forth rocking, from being held --
& his arms, his hands, all over my body,
admiring its smoothness. I said, no, yours
is smoother, mine is horny, scaly as a
reptile -- it was in these moments of talk,
a gift, a joke, the rocking stopped --
we were falling (through the bed
it seemed, the drugs were wearing off),
into some kind of knowledge, unspoken,
this physical syntax --

I knew him, then all through the morning
as we sucked & kissed & caressed
that it was him, got ahead of
this jerky demanding need to do
sex, when it was him there was no choice,
only a face, his rough chin, tousled hair --
then we sat in the Naam eating cereal,
his face & neck white, & the black overcoat.

The fear & the demand, to make love,
are still here, but the mythology is gone --
the fear & the demand weaker, & desire 
weaker -- but that it is him, that is
stronger, that the night lit up from inside
the cab when my arm turned his not-
unwilling face to me & the body answered --

he was (is) connected to the night, the city --

The cock is a torch, a fleshlight,
that lights up the body & our bodies light up
the night --
		I can see the end
through him as I kiss him goodbye
at the bus stop, but the face & the words
& that it is him, that shines --

What else -- oh that he was Stephen & I
Leopold & the hours were also rooms --
the bar & the taxi on Hastings & the bedroom --
lighted -- moving (losing it, touching,
knowing, losing it

towards the mouth, mouth on mouth,
   the mouth warm wet,
dark red the lips around, the dots
of beard, the eyes that would suddenly
open to see me & seductively close,
the lighted-up minutes, desire breaking
through fixations, making me
glad I'm old, glad they don't hold
no more, letting him, body against mine,
turning & turning over -- but going
too fast -- doing too much too fast -- not
loving the time, slower, better next time

never get any closer

The East Village Poetry Web