White Sunday 148: wordbound

patience earned and learned, until fleshes run rampant.
I am bound by word, cured of the pretty poisons,
inoculated by the fated touch and cant.
the chant of your paramour, withholding seasons
of the passions that will echo, hearts defiant
in the sweet heat burnt into us at the first kiss,
where we shared, passed more than tongue and taste, transcendent
to the definitions we once thought before this
total penetration, beyond pleasure and pain,
the beginning of a merged, purged pattern reborn
in torn fabrics of time and tapestries, the vain
injected with the sublime, the sacrifice shorn
of all pretense. wrap yourself around me and take
me, the subtle rebuttal of what we can make.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.