Old age ought to know. Death will soon come to its rescue. 'Till the knowing ends, all that was wasted and wronged in youth- through ignorance, haste, competition, bad belief- all that was bored by middle age into one long snooze, has borne its juiceless fruit, and is now known for what it is: nothing has been righted here. Yet if desire can be kept from contamination, if it can be aimed, as one's fingertip, at the root's place, if it is not harnessed to the horses of dismal domination, but is allowed to be itself and realize life, than the flutter of an eyelash on a cheek will assume its proper importance; Wall Street may crash and the gods of money smelted back into the sordid earths they come from; yet, unfazed, our heads will rest at least on one another, the fall sun will shine on the sheets, your nipple shall enter my ear like a bee seeking in a bloom a place to sleep, life shall run through us both renewed, we shall feel longing, lust for one another; we shall share rage for the world.
'Lust' by William H. Gass (July 30, 1924 – December 6, 2017)