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