In all the bars they stand with liquids in their hands:
tall and dark and light, thin, stout, young and middle-aged,
thick eye brows and sleepy eyes, short military-style
hair, curls and fur and cleanly shaved, soft flannel shirts, tee's tight
over pecs and biceps.  Bow-legged, long and straight, short,
thigh muscles wrapped in blues, and blacks, and various
fades.

Walt, I can smell them: soap and sweat and after-shave.
Walt, I want to trace my finger along each tattoo.
Walt, I lied:      I want to use my tongue
                        I have no use for names
              joy is the meeting of the flesh
              such beauty, such bounty in this landscape!

Outside the world is 17 degrees.  It lightly snows the night
black and white,  yet here we gather
around this glittering watering hole
bathed in artificial light.
I watch them, Walt.             I don't think they see me.  
                                                                              Age is a disguise
the heart puts on, pretending to get wise.  
                                             I love them, Walt
for the strength they get from the beef they eat, for their ignorance
and sudden kindness, for the way they live
                                                                                                                                [no break]
as if the days ahead were countless and theirs,
the openness of their faces as if they truly believed
every battle would be noble.
Though I would reach til I felt their beards and reach
til I held their feet, I am content to sit with my drink
and book of poems (not yours).  
    One of them beside me
offers me his hand.
I feel the atoms shift in his firm grip.  Condensation from his glass
splashes me.             It took me many years
to brave the pain that kept me out:

here I am, Walt,                            
               swimming.