I understand why flowers are purchased for sex.
Peachy full and curling lily flesh,
I look to this nonhuman flourish of growing genitalia subjects,
To feel that wild and that wonderful.
But I feel it most in restricted areas
Or where there is climbing courting still in progress.
Where there is honey suckling a milkweed split open for
Queen Anne wearing her lace,
And a dame sporting rocket for those
Bunchy, tight, red-stacked zinnia lips.
All for whom clouds of insects are eager,
Crawling; in buzzy active peaking bounty
for that sun who hotly penetrates.
Eventually each one comes,
Like how the shy June sunflower,
with its dial of pointy arms covering its stuff,
is coaxed by the supportive and unembarrassed sun
to open and stretch into climax,
this bloom in time-lapse.
What more perfectly victimless form of lovemaking is there?