From the Fishouse

Boys on a field --
a cold clear light
washing over them
as they move,
shifting lines & circles.
I watch their legs bend,
their arms curl
each other’s waists,
bands of muscle & bone
which join & break
away easily, quickly,
a tackle made.
I smell the film of sweat,
watch their faces flush,
through the mist
of their breath -- desire
stretching through me,
the way a canvas rips --
pulling & tensing
until stitches burst.

I want to join them,
as their bodies meet & hold
with a shameless pain --
yet I resist,
knowing how I would drop
a pass & bruise
against the ground
beneath their heaviness,
which I fear
as much as emptiness
after another’s embrace.

What I want
to know is how they can gather
as one, a tumble
of arms & legs,
then walk away --
separate,
to themselves,
as if untouched
by all that flesh:
the way a man
will cling to a woman,
pushing her away
& falling through her
into his own
passion.