Like young Athenian men (white-veined, pre-war),

we have our own obscene little rituals

(count me a man on your box-spring).

You lift a corner of the sheets, I slap you on the wrist;

you bring Thucydides to bed, I turn my back, for a

thorough spinal tap.

You have milk-moist finger pads

(congenital)

that you spread on the aquarium wall and watch

jellyfish come to lick. Man o’ war, you grin

Only you, I reply.