Alone in the dusk with you
while music by Ravel washes over us
and I clasp you in my arms,
your cool white plaster face
is warm against my stubbled cheek
and your arms seem to tremble.
Are you troubled, emotionally troubled?
What things we have heard together!
and afterwards, most of all, what you tell me
of artistic modesty. Your waist feels rough,
rough as the skin that keeps us apart
from each other. I shall be nude
against you, close as we can come.
- Frank O'Hara