White Sunday XIIII

the curve of your hip
warmer than I expected

my hands trace your body
your grace even in repose
waking in me the songs

have I become an altar
to passions or is it you
or are we sharing brisance
without over-thinking it all

I can smell the heat of you
the sweet wet taste of jasmine
that I have been greedy for

discovering a goddess
in the way you move your hips


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.