For anyone who read Dan Chiasson's likable review of The Best American Erotic Poems in the Sunday Book Review and wondered about the W.H. Auden poem that he described as "the dirtiest verse written since Rochester — I can’t even talk about it here," Vulture has tracked it down the verse in question and it is, indeed, awfully smutty. A (very) brief sample:
He put down his glass and stretched his bare arms along
The back of my sofa. The afternoon sunlight struck
The blond hairs on the wrist near my head. His chin was strong.
His mouth sucky. I could hardly believe my luck.
From there it gets much, much more anatomical ("beveled rim," "viscous goo," etc.) For the intrepid and unoffendable, the rest is here.