a kiss that doesn't end at lips,
softened to draw out my memories,
to flutter like doves prepared for sacrifice,
to shed a rivulet of blood born to rise
in resurrected passion, caught awakened
by a vision of precognitive thought,
agile and arrogant, like a Grecian bull-dancer,
mad with pleasure in this opportunity
to worship that which is held sacred
to him in awe and imperinent reverence,
the joy of the vault and the twist and the moment
of merger of two creatures into unity.


copyright William F. DeVault (wfdv)