Here is something a little pleasanter.
This is about-- this is called The Hug.
And I guess it's not only about a hug
but about middle-aged love.
When you're middle aged, what else
do you have to write about?
The Hug.
It was your birthday.
We had drunk and dined half of the night with our old friend,
who'd showed us, in the end, to a bed
I reached in one drunk stride.
Already, I lay snug and drowsy with the wine,
dozed on one side.
I dozed.
I slept.
My sleep broke on a hug suddenly from behind.
In which, the full lengths of our bodies pressed.
Your instep to my heel.
My shoulder blades against your chest.
It was not sex.
But I could feel the whole strength
of your body set or braced to mine
and locking me to you, as if we were still
22, when our grand passion had not yet become familial.
My quick sleep had deleted all of intervening time and place.
I only knew the stay of your secure, firm, dry embrace.
We get dried up when we're old.
But at least there can be some qualitated-- some benefits
in dryness, I guess.