he baits
a vulpine’s trap
with flexed bronzed
arms in clothing torn
his romantic
poverty in thick rough hands
liberal on my thighs
his predilection a
whispered ancient cry–
make love to me

if i say no,
he thunders
with a searing pernicious
desire —
he is not my handsome farmer
but instead immortal
desperate for one small glimpse
of my delicious joy —
sweat sweet color till
dirt grit between my teeth.