It seems like a dream (of the sort I don't have) to see you
At my doorstep, and have you come in in this cruelest
Season of lonely consumption and synthetic gaiety, feeling
Your thigh against mine as we drink Irish coffees and catch
Up in front of the fire. You say that you can't stay too long.
I accept that. I'll feast on your voice, on your scent, while
You're here, a man who's been starving for who knows how
Long, sated briefly, as if by a dream.