I’ve heard it claimed
that when we’re young
we know a happiness that will not be
surpassed in any of our later days.
In fact, it’s said, life’s destiny’s
at thing that cannot help but dim
and make unreachable the memory
of how content we were
at play within the lilting years just after infancy
For time’s cruel hand will all too soon
immerse us in a growing consciousness
of how much life is really
nothing but a vale of tears.
Oh, yes. There’s something to be said
in favour of the Edening of youth’s naivete.
And yet nostalgia does not measure up
in all of its protected pleasurings
to those inhabited, displayed,
inside the types of carnal knowledge
that becomes available
to be enjoyed by those enhanced by puberty
and its bestowing of the raw ability to ken
and ken again
the joys of sex.
But give to me the energy,
the all-consuming and elating sense
the upswelled, widened, wilded heart,
inherent in concupiscence.