Not circumnavigating morality Or bones of old saints Lonely illusions of the sad and middle-aged All Fat Tuesday freakshows in comparison
Our bed is the altar of sacred rites –
Marked with the devil’s ******* Sharpie And the intricately crocheted lace of sin Nightly baptized in warm, honey-coated nothing Pink patterns of iron and salt on linen
Painted idols on the shrine –
Absolution pours through drafty windows Older than our bodies Glass frosted by years without suds Only rain
A holy city of yours and mine –
With gentle pyro ways Stone and mortar become flame The balustrades collapse You light candlewicks with your fingertips