I know why all the old men want young 
girls, why the other old men love young 
boys, for I see how they are like 
the young girls (since I have whispered 
into your pink ears, my dear, and stroked 
your Chatterton pale chest, the soft bowl

of your Botticelli belly), and I know why 
men leave their old wives, wives their 
old husbands, why women love their men, 
why women love their women, for at times 
you seem to me a young Cathleen, your 
almond eyes, smooth thighs, white cheeks.

I know why mothers do so love their 
sons, and daughters their good fathers, 
and why a bed is a good, good thing (as 
are down pillows, quilts, clean sheets), 
why heterosexuals believe they’ve found 
a perfect symmetry of difference, why