After John Donne’s “To his Mistress Going to Bed”

What might she send — a wet sleeve, 
or platter of brine-latticed bluefish

dusky with capers, lemons, wine;
a briar for your thumb, a mouth, 

lunatic,  to suck the blood:
a signal that one too often

inside & now beside herself with thoughts
of you wonders how she might woo

and through dew-whetted keyhole 
pursue & sing & win? She is marvelous 

with waiting. Come. Hunt here.
Relieve with hands and tongue her heavy hour.