Ganymede

In the mirror. Backstage.

He takes up the task, laughing
He takes off his mask, beaming
They make off with it, smiling
He makes up his face, seeming

To see something divine in the parallel lines
Formed by rough men, strong-armed and teeming
With a provincial charm, silent but screaming
In words that are a French He happened to study
With a boy in his youth, both bloodless and ruddy
Who'd lie on the bed, his consciousness streaming

Who'd whisper wet words from beneath the warm sheets
While he fingered His buttons and kept Him from healing
Since His life was his bed and His heaven his ceiling
With cracks in the plaster that kept his soul steady
That the Boy, not the Man, had cherised already
So dreams the man, recreating that feeling