To my cavalier:

Though your step is uneasy and your eyes shine
wild with that roving ache, I know the
hazy room, stifled by smoke and the
earthy musk of beer and herbs and stale perfumes,
did not conquer your brazen swagger,
nor did it seize the tenderness in your laugh.
You play the fool the room demands as
bedfellows to the stink, yet your manner is
altogether too soft, too graceful.
Boredom brings us both under the sky, inky
and boundless, while your lanky figure
is silhouetted by the passing shadows
of bawds and vagabonds; we toast rum to them.

Should I tell you, my quiet Wilmot,
that your collar remains neatly creased
upon your swarthy neck and your mustached smile
remedies my grief and misgivings?
Should I confess, reckless Hyde, my wayward pulse?
Or was it found a moment ago,
when you pressed your wine-warm lips against my neck
and your breath burned hot on my shoulder?

To my gamekeeper:

How lovely and archaic your body is,
with or without the curl of the sun
touching your sinewy arms and granting glint
to your eyes, downcast only partly,
those dark relics that hint more than your
strange accent, your mumbled peasant tongue.
I failed translating your mouth’s language because
it was not fashioned to speak.
You can try, my Wragby man, using
it for persuasion, but we each know your mouth,
hot and pulsing, belongs to the sweat
upon my neck, the ripe curve of my belly,
the divide of my thighs.
Please remember your slender fingers
and the purpose of your legs,
lean and pale,
against my lowland, my moorland.

To my satyr:

your body pulses with me, in me
and this place is a private abyss for our
cores to ebb and strengthen, lovingly.
your hands cup my face to cherish this
secret, fleeting thing, this hollow filled with the half light of your
face looking at me, aching and swarthy.
dionysius possesses you;
i see him in your hairy groin, your hairy
thighs, which you use to goad into me.
play something (play me),
give me your wine-tasting tongue.
i will be your nymph
as long as you make my insides molten.