top of page


If there is a temple, it is under our eaves,

the altar made of sheets

and you the feast.

If there is sacrament, it is the ritual

kiss on skin,

feverish with sweat,

the sacred touch of tongue,

of shallow, heedless breath.

A hymn sung to flesh.


Worship is the taste of you.

You. Soul food for the aching.

For divine is the crush

of hands held in hands

and urgent yearnings:

frantic canticles to paradise

of fire and flames.

But faith, that is gentle.

It is the prayer of thanks

wed to the drifting slowness of sleep.

57 views0 comments


bottom of page