Boys in Foreign Climes
Desire is a vacation taken on your own.
As if in Rome you sit after dark, and the waiters are
Busloads of Germans mistakenly massacred in front of the museum where a teenager with nothing on his mind but you drinks water from a liter of Evian you bought in Bethlehem... and you kiss the neck of the bottle instead of his to slake your parching thirst. He wipes his mouth on the Nile-blue sleeve of his jacket and thanks you with a trusting smile. You stare into his Nefertiti eyes, not knowing whether to drown in them or grieve, as his attentive teacher bustles to apologize amid the general racket of schoolboys and tourists -- you in agony to brush your bated breath across the boy's sweet upper lip, dusted with a new mustache. Had all Egypt been a snake, you could have swallowed it
As if a boy in dark blue stripes by the Brandenberg Gate
A boy who makes you shudder -- is he faintly Asian? -- strolls through the Degas show at the Metropolitan of New York City, and one who is only a black-framed painting by Delacroix; still, he makes you weep under the domed skylight with pity and a sudden overwhelming wanting of him and water. Why can't you will yourself to move? There is so much open beauty in his French-blue eyes, your weary old legs, thick as a peasant in pigment, prove useless, your panting heart