candle
like
flesh, like
a lover's long hard
finger that you kiss
traces lines unbroken
down your lips and chin
the wax of your neck
along the dark
circles that
tip each
breast.
Lightless, its death
is cold, but when
in heat flickers like
the whispers of a
man's passion, that
flicks sharp pools of
shadow on your navel's
infant skin. Virgin
white, the candle's
moulded length
strokes and strokes
inside your thighs,
themselves like votive
lamps about to be lit.
And the soft centre
of your flame, the
liquid fire you have
burning calls to candle,
says come
into my temple come
press your head
against this altar and ignite.
14 October 2001 19:04 hours
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