This is what he talks about, after sex:
Viaduct arches that home vagrants, blank
Eyes staring like cuckoo eggs, mouths
Gulping warmth from necks of sherry bottles.
He pales like a bandage, pulls pleasure

Through a reefer; looks at me as though 

I’m medicine. He’ll leave a fifty

On the dresser and I’ll wish that he had

Come to me without a bean. I’d have

Treated him anyways and felt as good.