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.
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