This 50-ish frump, rat’s-nest brittle hair
             frittered by stress;
scalp daily raked to amend one last damsel flare

           At forty, she’s had it, slow to go, can’t quit the scene,
                    still aching for dressing-room noise,
                    one-night-stands, divine chorus-boys.

Patsy’s in by 5; Steve and Spike since dawn.
           Ten regulars by 7, all set,
                    crowding their cabin.

Owns his own cab. Not that ole 2-ton Mack-truck.
            Ageless, balding, pushing 60,—
but swears he still has all the luck.

2 motors flaring stoked their raucous joke;
twin fans, reversed, sucked up stiff acrid smoke.

Tomás Luis de Victoria
moves very slow
in his motet

Am not sure what it is
In oceanography
how the tide just tears apart

This is for you
Now that your curved wood chair
like a chair carved in Black Woods, Germany,

If you believe the novels
(and why shouldn’t you believe them?)
there are some passionate women who really let go and

Are women writing odes
to cocks that fuck them,
describing episodes