A winter's dream dissolves in summer's night


He dreams of Ray and Fraser on the ice
(Kowalski bundled, foolish, wrapped in puffed
Down coats and mittens, balaclavas, scarves;
And Fraser, crimson beacon, warm beneath
The endless sky. Kowalski stakes the dogs
And makes the tea while Fraser hunts up -- what? --
Some caribou or arctic moose for stew.
They eat al fresco, Fraser sipping bark
Concoctions, Ray a shivering, bundled ball
Of snark, who stirs the pot sarcastically).

Beneath the tunic, he recalls the man
(Pale skin that gleams in dappled light, bright specks
Of dust reflected in the morning's sun
That dares the Dragon Lady's wrath and breaks
Round window blind. Chicago's sunlight here
Demands asylum, wants Canadian men
To paint with golden warmth. So Benny, pure
And alabaster, beaming with his joy
Until his perfect visage cracks Ray's heart
Like Semele's, and leaves him dust, destroyed.
No Dionysus memories remain).

He wonders how Kowalski's staying warm
(Two bodies intertwined in snowpacked tents
Ignoring blizzards howling overhead,
A flash of leg, a man bent tight with knees
Pulled nearly to the ear. A hand on cock
That strokes on silken skin, hot flesh that yearns
For palm on burning need; a hungry tongue
Tastes ear, the corner of a mouth, a brush
Of golden hair against the jaw; a flash
Of silver on a wrist as calloused hands
Stroke fevers, shivers out of trembling need
Across that alabaster chest, those round
And perfect nipples too unreal for man).

His nightmares wake him, terrified and hard
(A sleepy "hrmph" is what he hears, an arm
Is thrown possessively around his chest
As he shoots up, awake, with frightened grunt.
The golden head stirs on the pillow, lips
Brush kisses on his jaw, one hairy leg
Thrown over his has pinned him to the bed.
"What's wrong?" a sleepy voice inquires, and waits
In no way for an answer, as a hand
Moves down his chest and grasps his yearning cock,
Now bringing him to gasping want into three
Sharp strokes. Soft lips breathe words against his ear,
Warm promises rubbed in with stubbled heat
That brushes in new hope with burning touch.
He comes in short sharp shocks that ripple through
His chest, warmth bubbling up through pleasure, pain
Dissolving as he basks in light, the glow
Reflected from Kowalski's joy, a face
So far from perfect, perfect nonetheless.
The Dionysus left behind is here,
A shining beacon in his bed, so warm
Instead of arctic, beauty in these flaws,
Perfection in the imperfection of
This man, no dream, this warm Chicago night).