Now that age has diminished
my reach, I miss that soft
intermittent sound she made
when I was most a part of her.
Not the pinnacle of her pleasure−
held breath, shudder of muscle−
obtainable by other means, but
the low, guttural groan
From that remote cavern
where fact and metaphor
converge, where our flesh
is most nearly made one.
I suppose it’s greed at my age
to want so much from her
when my own needs are so
meager and so easily met.
Is that what love becomes
in the end−the need to drain
every last drop of pleasure
from her, so there’s none left
for others once I’m gone?
