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the colour of your eyes is a sermon


kneeling at the bed, my mouth feels for it

in the dark, searching at the smell of you

finds your swollen velvet, the apogee

where time becomes a nonsense


I salt the rinds of your hips 

squeeze your brood to sentience and hatch 

a moan, seed my palms into your rut and 

watch your lips arch as they take root


my tongue speaks itself in lazy drags

its lucid slippery language, whispers

I am your balm

your salve

here, I can feel the world’s pulse

here, the wolf and the lamb, tucked

against my throat 


if god is alive, she is here, lanterning

your eyes and plucking our breath 

if god is alive she has drenched us both

in rivulets of touch, each crest birthing

stars in their wake