In a thin misty slow the sky ghosts towards grey
And constellations of streetlamps flatter
the suburban quiet with kind shadows.

my fingers feel fertile and full of intent,
as they scratch st my butterfly activity;
while you still sleep beneath the weight of dreams.

Do not fret I will not wake you with brass
Or the soundings of tymbals thundering
But with fingers whispering at your hair.

my lisping tongues voices in soft low echoes
Against the thin filaments of your flesh,
I speak sweet sibilant kisses of sound.

I bathe you in murmurs like vague perfume.
My breath trembles penitent at your neck
summoning the grace of your awakening

I utter my quiet hallelujahs
Into the pores of your arching body
And feel tremors burn through your sheer light being.

And I will taste the Eucharist of you
In the undoing, the final writhing
That cures the heart with blessings of release.