The Gist of My Yen

My gawky juvenilia,
inspired by vernal bliss
and throes, read of cilia
abrush my cheek, a kiss

on your nape, the daintiest
palpation of you. Ten
years later the gist
of my yen is this: I stiffen

brazenly at speculation
on your flesh. What’s happening
to your taste? Will you shun
me? Is it shared, this ripening?