What if I were turned on by seemingly innocent words such as "scumble,"
"pinky," or "extrapolate"?
What if I maneuvered conversation in the hope that others would pronounce
these words?
Perhaps the excitement would come from the way the other person touched
them lightly and carelessly with his tongue.
What if "of" were such a hot button?
"Scumble of bushes."
What if there were a hidden pleasure
in calling one thing
by another's name?
Armantrout is essentially talking about the pleasure of making metaphors, which is the basic work of the poet. Poetry in this poem becomes something secret, erotic, a kind of veiled flirtation.
Scumble