White Sunday 145: dire, carnal

tenderness and the dire and carnal need to feed
upon your willing form, warm with desire and sweet,
sweet as nectar and honey with jasmine, you bleed
me of my white wine with lip and hip that slip, heat
transfiguring friend to lover that hovers high
and hard, balanced on your passion and grace, craving
all and more as sacrament of my spirit's cry
to seek the unpierced corners of you, not saving
anything for anyone else, all given free
and deep and even when you sleep I must ravage
you in tender savagery. the fervent needs we
have found, earnest to a purified state, savage
madness and sensation of skin on skin, within
and, without each other, we are lost to soft sin.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.