Shy, he stepped off into the cornfield. I could see

his back muscles under the damp shirt quiver and go slack.

Turning again to face the shade, he smiled at me, not

squinted, smiled, and finished tugging shut his fly.

Now, when the cornstalks in the night wind slide

like fire, I see him. He steps closer in my dream.

I don’t know, where he sleeps, if sleep refreshes him,

but here it works me like hot metal over a flame.

From the poem “The Idea Of Beauty” by Meleagros, 3rd century, translated by Brooks Haxton in The Atlantic.

Preston Grant backside