Don’t say in what suburb live Lea or Jill
or Kristin or Karen, of whom I’ve no news.
I seek in remembrance their true domicile
and find each spring a welter of clues.
So where are Perla, Andrea and Suze,
nymphs in the bushes whose tendrils and mesh
first drew me in to go off in twos?
Beauty is the memory of the flesh.
Where’s Joy who taught to diddle and thrill
and Sara who never was patient of cues?
Where is Odilia come from Brazil
and Tish and Patricia, Alicia and more whose
return to my covers I’d never refuse?
With such concupiscence did our limbs thresh
the soreness we suffered was never abuse.
Beauty is the memory of the flesh.
Toward those who ditched me I bear no ill will
nor want other women in lieu to misuse.
Lucia capricious, Hazel so volatile,
Jessica wont to tease and confuse –
each gave me little between which to choose.
With each I gladly would take up afresh
and past defection forget or excuse.
Beauty is the memory of the flesh.
Herewith this spring to a collective Muse
affection which bears no resemblance to fresh
blossoms – their blush time turns to bruise.
Beauty is the memory of the flesh.