What’s on tonight but lips pressed on lips,
the neck, the hollow of the collarbone,
down on the silver strings from chest to hips,
bass guitar counterpointing basement’s groan;
and on the stirring cord, lips fawn, and tease,
teeth sheathed, to please and worry its backbone:
an arctic wolf licking the meat it sees,
meat spiked onto a knife, the foam its own.
On this white horse, the lancer sits astride.
He jerks the bit and bloods its jaws, care thrown
to the wind, pain spurring the pleasure-ride,
slippery saddle, mounting to one moan—
we come together, separate. Tonight
blunts hunger’s edge and whets the appetite.