White Sunday XVI

touch and taste and sound and sight and scent
the veil is rent
and senses flood like blood from a wound
but this warm fluid is not red
not yet
but wet and pulsing life
of a sweeter degree
communicating your desire
your fire
as you kiss fingertips
with lips
thirsty
hungry
trembling to speak
to seek to express
the senses overtaken
with a simple kiss
or stroke of hand
or fingertip
or eloquent tongue
silently making love
that you may find me on more than a page
that becomes my cage
when it is locked away
in rooms you only come to
when you are alone
and you want to feel
your senses light up like a pyre
of dried exotic woods
that you can dance in the light
naked
in flesh and metaphor
grateful for my lips
fingertips
the truth they speak
that you are beautiful
worthy of reverence
and all the deity I need
for my faith to be restored


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.