...she gives herself
sweetness of love and touch
from tedium of passing days, a pause
from shadows that came and stayed a while;
she loves
for its blinding beauty, in waters
that must flow--for the haunting urge
skin upon skin, she tastes lips and feels
lost in giving and taking, to moan her song
at one with walls that seem to tremble too;
in twined limbs and words that linger
so long as racing pulses throb; and as deeply
for it is Sunday,
she is an altar
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