Yeats, that passionate old bastard,

wrote about young women well.

Black gyres, ancient Irish politics,

were all for naught.

Faced with the grace and gait

of Colleen, his deep thought

was silly, like searching

through classical references

as you took the gentle pressure

of her breasts against your chest.

There’s a place for the dance in an old man.

Maybe young women are there for us,

like death, that we may smile slyly

at the effortless curve of her,

and ask ourselves, after a lifetime,

who is more helpless, who walks

beneath the grey clouds

like a promise constantly kept?