Seven inches and single, play
me the way men do when their heart’s
on shuffle, repeating without
shame games as if I were needed.

Don’t say to me what you can sing—
won’t reinvent the wheel, refrain
from speaking in sighs the way your
tongue makes me feel—get things rolling.

Right from the start getting off, laid
up in bed and fraught with wanting
so damned bad to be awash—sprayed—
with what only your mouth can douse

this flaming thing in. Lips that take
it in, no complaint—synched, psyched-out,

and spread wet—how you syncopate
the thrust of my throb’s downbeat deep
and so well between breaths—no doubt,
all confident and adept—is

it any wonder why, then, when
you use me the way I always
wanted to be, it’s in ways I’m
not used to yet? So controlling

until loosened up, how I’ve prayed
for this—that we’d both forget whose
abuse of love our minds’ head-case
kind of unkindness more than not

confused for its fire—our displays
of power over desire’s hot,

          howling, primal prowl neither of
                    us will ever master, not now.