What's a little sacrilege between friends? The whole juxtaposition of this work's imagery is buit on upon the statement by poet Walace Stevens that poets are the high priests of the invisible. Well, in a dark enough room, everything is invisible. And, it takes little imagination to figure what the sacraments of this priest would be.
The Priest of Passion Serves the Sacrament
break me down
take me down that shadowed path
where we once lingered,
daring fate to let us
touch
in ways shown sharing
in ways known caring
about what wordless whims
were communicated.
I can smell
your attar on my hands and clothes,
ancient faded memories
that I summon freely
heat
that feeds this fire
that feeds this desire
and when you shed your veils
I will enter the temple.
deity
and the temptress to my fall,
all I have I sacrificed
the price of your hunger
fed
to make me bleed
to take my need
and let me mark a holy scripture
in fingertips on your flesh.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
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