I tie you to the chair and feel the rough
Of wood and soft of skin compete and play
For where my wet attention goes and stays,
Although the sport’s sniggered at as uncouth.
Still, there is a time to bring the rope and bind
The love-object to her astute pedestal
And grant her darkest wish therewithal:
To feel assured that mating’s sting is blind.
I with she and she with he and they with them
Play a roundel merry Mozart could commend,
So difficult’s’t to parse the beginning from the end
Until the music stops and draws the curtain.
I would tie you to me more gently, though:
Be thou the butterfly on which my breezes blow.