the colour of your eyes is a sermon
kneeling at the bed, my mouth feels for you
in the dark, searching at the smell of you,
finds your swollen velvet, the apogee
where time becomes a nonsense
I salt the rind of your hips,
squeeze your brood to sentience and hatch
a moan, I seed my palms into your rut and
watch your lips arch as they root
my tongue speaks itself in lazy drags
lapping, i am your balm,
your salve,
in lucid, slippery language
here, I can feel the world’s pulse
here, the wolf and the lamb, tucked
inside a single jewel
if god is alive, he is here, lanterning
your eyes and plucking our breath.
if god is alive he has drenched us both
in rivulets of touch
baptized by our
sweat