What so sexy in a sonnet lurks?
Is it between the lines as legs or sheets
hide wonders lovers clamber to repeat,
or is it the tradition that it works?
Does language force the mental tongue embark
on crevices and larks that tempt to heat
the flush and pulse of skin that suffers sweet,
such lush and ample games of toward remark?

If you, my dear, would love me half as well,
your touch incline me to such ecstasies
as when I read the pain in what you write,
I would not rise from bed to answer hell,
nor salvage purity on bended knees,
and so, mindfuck me – please – through torrid night.

— Amanda J. Bradley