Carve me a toothpick; I have one curled hair
stuck in-between my incisors. These chapped
hips, this silicon knob with its horsehair
tail, these boots. Have I ridden you? or “tapped
your ass,” as Butch Lisette once claimed? Of course
not. Please forgive my friends, they are … so young,
obsessed with sending nude selfies. They’re coarse
little things, amusements. But you? Your tongue
itches to taste this, no? Peace. Come closely.
Pull up your trousers. Look out the window.
Be still, pet. What do you see? The merchandise
of lust; the night hums with it. But for me
I’m done with stroking needy libidos.
That’s how much I adore you: more than vice.