Oh, well, good news, coyness and not sleeping
with you still aren’t criminal acts,
last time I checked, my man. So
I’m not too worried about that. Feel
like I’ve tried to say this nicely,
but that never works, so let’s try
something else: had I the world and time,
sitting by the river and listening to
you as you try to seduce me would not
be on the top of my list.
I’ve seen weeds sprawl across a garden
and shoot green fingers up the walls
I don’t want an empire of grassy love
growing at me.
Your vegetable love would spoil.
If I get thirty thousand years, I won’t
spend them listening to you describe
my own body to me. (I already know
what it looks like.)
Look, I’m afraid of death, too
But that’s hardly a solid jumping-off point
for sexual negotiations, my vegetal love.
Your dick is not an alternative to the grave.
Fear is not a sufficient cause for defloration.
I’m sorry we can’t fuck in the afterlife,
but you’re not the one who can die in childbirth,
you know what I mean? Of the risks
we’re running, I’d say I’ve got more skin in the game.
Anyhow.
Hawks don’t eat time, or each other.
I’m going to get old whether I fuck you or not.
Chase the sun all you want, I’m still never
having sex with your herbaceous ass.
