She looked at my TV to say, look at
All that sex. To bring me out of my work.
To peck the eyes pumping in a grotesque
Caricature. And I said, what sex? That
Isn’t even what sex looks like. To pull
My mind from the growing ashes off the
Burning end of my cigarette. The burn
And urge of my male being. The subtle
Give and take of mental combat. I reached
Out to brush the tops of my fingertips
Against her cheek. To take deliberate
Each step to sooth the sting behind my eyes
With her wet flesh. Like the blood drained from the
Exotic verities in poetry.