You are soldier-strung-stripped with elixir like vines lifting symphonies from your veins - when you move -
in the dark of my room.
Your sapphire smile a forest of hymns
pushing me softly to lunacy
my humanity a pool at my knees.
A murmur at the sake of martyrs - gone mad? - and hot.
A Sunday skirt as tethers at my feet.

I will fuck you by the Blood of Christ
straight to the sorrow of your bones
and suck the anguish from your marrow.
I will bathe the center of you from the opals of my tongue
and send you purified
back to the half-light of the gods.

01/13/2008

Posted on 01/14/2008
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