TO A YOUNG LOVER

You break me—now, remake me.  I am not real

Until you subjugate me, and I feel

Your cock’s hot heart slice through me, now—you flex

Your loins, my back beneath your abs, your pecs,

Burns, sweats, now—Now—the Paradise you plow. 

Abs, loins, thighs, glutes—your muscular thrust completes

My now-fragmented praise. But young John Keats

Expressed it best:  You have me—now—in thrall... 

Beauty is youth, youth beauty.  —That is all

We know on earth, and all we need to—Now—  

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