When I Am An Old Lady

When I am an old lady the young men will come to me & sit trembling at my trembling feet saying: you must have been beautiful when you were young; you must have been a wonderful lover- & perhaps they will still feel that current which you say passes from me to you & which you give back doubled on our wild afternoons. The madness will still be there- the current of sex, of poetry, of heroism- which is only another name for God passing through us- God, Goddess, whoever we call Her- that ancient lady who sits above the world spinning out our destinies. She looped your life around mine; she took the weft of your need & gave me the bright threads to weave you into my life- old Circe playing music on her loom, & weaving men into her glittering tapestry. Woven into her cloth, still, they feel free. Bewitched by her poems, still, they feel strong. Drunk on her Pramnian wine, still, they feel clear- as if they were marching through life alone. But it is she who guides them, leading them now by their cocks, now by their hearts, now by swinishness- but what does she feel alone on her cloud throne? She feels lonely. Lonely to know all she knows & lonely even being loved by so many sleepy beasts.