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.