Well past twilight
Even midnight
After the bath and
Other aftermaths
Mostly in my mind
I make love to myself
Tender and asexual as
A mother holding her child
Just the stroking of skin
Caressing the face
The neck, the arms
Something gone
The need still there
For the pressing of creams
Still feeling the escape —
The slipping of soap —
And the solitary pleasure
Of this ritual still sustains me