The coliseum’s breathtakingly variegated,
like flower gardens, coral reefs, buffet spreads.
A pass isn’t an expression of desire but
an ejaculation. Every spiral arc is hugged
and tucked away. The knights have fetishes:
kneeling, jumping up in sync with each snap,
and thrusting. When tackling starts, helmets
glitter with the electric glow of neon signs.
Feel me. Wrap your digits around my midriff,
spin me into your end zone. Or let me be
your pillow bear, drop me into the embrace
of the fastest chevalier. Squib me on the grass,
roll me head-over-butt past two white lines.
Let every jumping bean flop onto my belly.