stroke.

Grace foiled fingers
arthritic and thick-knuckled
ease as a swan's supple
neck when my hands
are upon him,
freewheeling vagrants
seeking salvation
through ill,
lewd as I pull
the shroud from his
hooked hips,
a doe-eyed stoned
christ,
babbling and serene,
speaking into space,
calling out for his father.
I take him between
warm stroke of tongue
and cheeks,
wet the undersides
where few lovers dared,
between thumb and forefinger
he is polished, shiny
and slick--
he never blinks or says my name.