I Keep Trying to Leave but the Sex Just Gets Better and Better

This is not what the door's for-slamming

you up against, opening

your legs with my knee. And it isn't

leaving, the thing I keep doing

with my shoes still on, or in the car

in the driveway in broad

daylight after waving

goodbye to your neighbors

again. But my body's a bad

dog, all dumb tongue

and hunger, down

on all fours again, tied up

outside again, coming

when called but then always refusing

to stay. I know what I'm trying

to say, but it isn't

talking, the thing that I do with my mouth

to your ear, even though

we got the orifices right. To leave

I would have to put clothes on,

and they'd have to fit better

than all of this skin. To leave

I would have to know where to begin:

like this, pressed up

against the half-open window? Like

this, with my foot on the gas? If seeing

is believing then why isn't touching

knowing for sure? I just want my nerves

to do the work for me, I don't want

to have to decide. There's blood in my hands

for fight and blood in my legs

for flight and nowhere

a sign. Believe me, I'll leave if you just

let me touch you again for the last

last time.