Lord Quicksilver, god of erections, come down
in your winged Nikes, your hard-hat brilliant
as an oiled mirror, and lend some assistance.
I have a young partner, handsome and eager,
whose love I want, whose pleasure pleases me.
When a smile as mischievous as his seems to ask
for a second round or a third, naturally
every spurred nerve aches to pump up the tempo,
like a dark horse the last heat of the day,
sweatsoaked and burning to win. My age, though,
men are long past the satyrs we once were,
flesh quickens or not after its own will or whim.
Now, I have no use for clever devices; so take
your wand (its twin snakes intertwined like vines),
touch my equipment, and work your famous magic.
If you do this, I will free two doves in your name
to fly beside you on your early morning errands.
Divine messenger boy, send me like a letter,
a fox to its burrow, a hand in its silk-lined glove.
Let me keep unwavering purpose—to embody feeling
till all the senses answer, blazing the path to our own
Olympus, no medal like the light in each other's eye.