Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung,
I would not fear the apple nor the flood
Nor the bad blood of spring.
Shall it be male or female? say the cells,
And drop the plum like fire from the flesh.
If I were tickled by the hatching hair,
The winging bone that sprouted in the heels,
The itch of man upon the baby's thigh,
I would not fear the gallows nor the axe
Nor the crossed sticks of war.
Shall it be male or female? say the fingers
That chalk the walls with green girls and their men.
I would not fear the muscling-in of love
If I were tickled by the urchin hungers
Rehearsing heat upon a raw-edged nerve.
I would not fear the devil in the loin
The, ahem, thrust, of this stanza is the speaker opining that if they were just masturbating (“rehearsing heat”), then they wouldn’t fear sex. The phrasing “muscling-in of love” makes it clear that sex exists across both carnal desires and human self-awareness. 

If I Were Tickled by the Rub of Love