In Cadiz
we walked the street
that the guide book
called homosexual,
but only saw
dim lit rooms
with makeshift curtains
over doors
pulled back
revealing
fat whores
splayed.
Vulvae
that shocked us
and made me
think of my birth,
bloody and viscous,
and sailors
emptying into them,
the whores
and how
possessive I was
with your cock.
Mine.
All in all
disappointing
that dark forage,
until later
when we sat
on the wall
of the old battlement
and watched
the two young men
swimming naked.
A gift--
from our gods.
Moorish domed
thick turrets,
even with you
or especially,
I was Querelled
and itched
compulsively
with mad dog foaming
and hungrily
checked out
all the
mysteries.
You went for a drink
and I went upstairs
to the top floor.
A singular bed,
small window.
Moonlight
stretched
across my
naked body.
Releasing,
I ached
for you.
In the morning
you departed
for a medieval village
and I reclaimed
my being
and later
under Orion
hunted the street
the guide book
called homosexual,
Unfulfilled,
Anxious.
August 1987
