On Going to a Steakhouse after Shopping for Sex Toys

                    Those grey eyes glazed with moonlit sweat
eroticize like bullets my
gloved fists, gripping red bags their lead
sinks when I insist we both dry
our Selves of what winter has wet
us with: desire perspired by
          angels as they fall, flakes of snow
          dripped by wind onto men who blow

                    each other instead of their cheques
on Boxing Day, taking our time
as we parade to an address
others pace past, hesitant lights
working their damnedest to connect
with thirsting souls whose hunger pries
          open wide their greediest holes—
          guys like us, starving for a bone

                    to lick or behold—as blankets
of our sighs thicken air blind night
tears; thin as bible-paper yet
capable of splitting lips, skies
fearful of such wind as this breath
tracing our necks, foregoing sight
          as if to say, ‘Come inside…’ so
          we both go in, out of the cold

                    into a steakhouse where the spread
makes thin and thickset boys alike
look love-swept as the joint’s hired help
shoots from the hip, asks if we might
be needing (to be) bre(a)d, and says
we must be, since their heads filled like
          wine cups with visions of fresh dough
          needing to be pounded by those

                    delicacies on their select
menu; and so laying aside
shopping bags blushing crimson—sex
shop-tinged plastic sacks of red-light
district purchases we made, red
as the steaks’ rarity denied
          to us, since our taste, we are told,
          is, ‘Too dangerous—’ we both show

                    to the house-staff what cut of flesh
we know will change their cautious minds,
as I lift my napkin and let
them play with it—waiters my guy’s
alright with, all of whom will get
a tip when they finish the kind
          of meat men like me and mine go
          out of our way to find—that no

                    blizzard can hinder nor tempest
prevent from bringing its delight:
that veiny thickness loneliest
Adam and Onan themselves might
have gripped tight when cursèd Eve bled
or from Tamar he fled; one-eyed
          in their attempts to get to know
          that beast of a burden that grows.