I could cry for the beauty of men,
the ones I loved from a distance,
as I stood starry-eyed like a kid
at a parade, my tears accumulating
in small puddles on the sidewalk,
since I wanted to march along too,
while the beautiful men waved with
a smile as they passed, and hustled
off to those secret exciting places
where beautiful men hang out:
where Narcissus and Ganymede
and Endymion rest between myths,
the groves of sunshine and laughter,
where naked Greek athletes pause
between games, their eyes shining
with crazy light, their muscled
bodies taut and slender as willows.
Once I saw the impossible
dream flash
into life for one astonishing moment,
of those who were meant to be loved
by everybody: handsome and graceful,
luminous youths who could lead
the rest of us off toward manhood,
towards all that might have become
of this baffling human sexual life
if things had somehow been different.
And then to strike a forceful
glance with HIM, in a crowded bar
on a Saturday night, bristling
and hungry with thoughts
of a heroic fuck, was thrilling,
as HE came over to place his hands
and arms around your waist, his
penis and balls hard against
yours,
as you accepted that beauty,
and you became beautiful to him.