Why is it that men–I should only speak
for myself now, but a woman once told
me the same thing, so I can't help but hold
it to be true, whatever you may think–
are mysteriously allured by those
women whose mouths are always in a moue
of dissatisfaction? Could it be true
that such men think, in taking off her clothes,
 
he could be the only man to make her
smile, as if his hands alone could conjure
up the delights of the flesh she has missed
in her relationships with other men,
who never is fulfilled, though often kissed,
whose disappointment makes us try again?