Again the old heart returns
with its old heat, that old alertness
of muscle, and the weave of desire through-
out, out of which I say truthfully
             when I was a much younger man
I ought to have spent so many more hours
touching myself —

                         ankles and boots,
ankles beneath boots and boots with ankles
inside, and what is the luxury of a knee
             if it is not to wear it
while it impacts with wood like a leaf, a bolt
against metal, or flesh returning to all flesh?
This is the bird I become in my bed,

the flutter of that old picturesque courage
from the years I had more teeth than I knew,
more toes, more spots to be touched
than anyone has ever been touched, down
on the bed I throw me to relearn all of that,
to win that courage, that old eliding
flex that wakes me yes wakes me from sleep.