When I was young and sexual
I looked forward to a cool Olympian age
for release from my obsessions
Ho, ho, ho. At sixty the body’s one desire
sustains my pulse, not to mention
my groin, as much as it it ever did, if not quite
so often. When I gaze at your
bottom as you bend gardening, or at your breasts,
or at your face with its helmet
of sensuous hair, or at your eyes proposing
the text of our next encounter,
my attention departs from history, baseball,
food, poetry, and deathless fame.
Let us pull back the blanket, slide off our bluejeans,
assume familiar positions,
and celebrate lust in Mortality Mansions.