Read by Brent Goodman
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.