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