Imagine my disgust at discovering that I am
actually that readable and uncomplicated,
that I could find nothing in me worth noting
except one heat and two ways to release it.
Music leads to sex leads to music leads to sex.
If it wasn’t for the clock of music imitating
the pulse of sexing someone, I could forego
this lapdance in my own lap. There’s no need
for that sliver of ice, those chilly silver utensils,
the banshee howl, that two-way mirror,
the pliable circle of the mouth, Todd Rundgren’s
Healing, that spread-eagle, the lazy drip of any
liquid, the ritual reading of Sharon Olds, that
imprint of your urgent ass marring my wall.
I can blame you on all this, your drumbeat hip,
what writhes in your pants. I can’t stop sparking
what I keep having to douse. Kiss me that deep.
Turn the air into victim with your arms.
Dance me till weeping and the beauteous burn.