Hunger Or Sex

You want me
to feed your hunger.
Is it sex?
Or words?
I may not do both.
I fancy you want something pithy:
a sharp intrusion,
a twitchy verb.
Perhaps you’d rather a pale adjective?
Something limp and lost.
Or something from Ted Hughes,
a guttural rush; life from the serpent’s eye.
Or do you want this, this frame,
this spent mind, slavering over your form,
clutching at your inner self?
I never know.
I don’t think you do either.
We lie here
aroused and not.
We are waiting,
exhausted















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