Dec
2007
2007
08
A Little Something for a Snowy Saturday
Seeking the Sacred
It comes to this:
Knowing the warmth of your hand
Upon my touch-starved desert flesh,
The soft caress, palm to palm,
Fingers twining one to one,
Tracing each knuckle bend, each milky nail.
I wake remembering a kiss
Never given nor received,
Yet always offered:
My sacrificial lips swollen with the rush
Of amorous blood clamoring release.
The salty fruit of your skin
Lingers upon my tongue’s memory.
I know the musky tastings
Of your dark and secret places,
Revealed in frantic tactile urges
Pressing, wordless, forward.
I will never hold you,
But you are mine:
Closer than twins
Born one atop the other.
You have sealed your sacred self
Whole within my skin;
The profane becomes Holy, and I worship
Needing no other church.
graceful, provocative and profound all at once. beautiful.