You say I wakened
  your libido. I imagine it
  snoozing in the
  nook of a haystack's neck,
  or lying shy, like the bed
  of a stream,
  wild reeds as its shelter.

  Perhaps you'd pushed it
  under a shallow stone,
  under the dun cover
  of earth, scooping the soil
  and smoothing the surface
  with quiet disguises
  nicked from nearby fields.

  Then again, it could have
  flown to a hot, a secret
  destination, and stretched
  in a smother of dusk
  on bland sand, reading
  romantic novels: on a lido,
  your libido with a Barbara Trapido.

  Or maybe hired smugglers
  lugged it in boxes
  over imaginary dunes
  and larruped the waves
  with oars, the shore
  over their shoulders only
  a distant braid of beach.

  Nothing like the truth,
  is there? When I drew
  the evenings open,
  all that I found was
  my body's bashful voices -
  and the long shout
  of our double discovery.


From the book Love Poems