Lively, proud-strutting down the filthy street:
a handsome thing in the neon and the rain
whose pale skin challenges the moon's far face
and laughs at it, while he dances, and he smiles.

Perhaps an earlier age have fashioned him
of marble and jet and cool mysterious jade
(his lips, however, must be a living rose:
such soft and sensual sweetness, a pretty lie).

But he is now, and here (and always now
in lovers' arms the knowing statue lies,
while many and briefly between the dusks and dawns
their blood drinks deeply his carnal innocence).

And by the rules of the crude flesh carnival
he sells himself to any, but walks away
with his untouched agile pride.
His easy smiles can never quite conceal
the cold green lightning of his electric eyes.