The inscrutable bed clothes, worn in lust,
telling what, in their dishabille? A word
that means your hand there, or the happiness
of chest-to-chest, breath groined.

So ugly—groined—joined and loin and grind.
The highboy leers, about to laugh. Could you,
flipping on a belt, find the way past of this happy
Ness, the silky monster of the lake

the clothes sink below? I want your particulars:
age, height, sushi preference, the monstrous animal
living the groin-life, so I know just why
I’ve swum, raw and heart wrung, again to Rome.