Napes of vineyard patches the ambrosial
     fruits of which my tongue has not yet scraped, flesh
     tufted with mid-month sprouts of silky growth
     slithering up between ten-dollar buzz-
     cuts, their matchbox patchwork an explosive
     quilt of lascivious shapes, flames lightning-
     licking serpents lay on him like fallen
     crowns, tempting the snake in my trousers, hot
     caution flying past me as I pull down
     my fly, enticed by his body’s wildest
     hair undulating in Prairie winds, I
     size up his Ego as I dawdle close
     behind him, devising awful designs
     to liberate from his Levi’s, the guy’s
     fattened calf and the brunet burn of his
     wisping path of faun fur that plays its soft
     melody coquettishly in that neck’s
     nape, whispering its python-thickness—that
     which will not escape my embrace—and hard
     along this statuesque shaft my wet glance
     passes, my eyes resting sun-like on his
     thighs, enlightening my fevered mind what
     I pain my libido to imagine,
     on down his back’s broadness, and back up, dusk
     bisecting his ass in a tight crack where,
     if he practices it, not only will
     he explore it, but perform with me in
     that forest, his bisexuality.