Song of Songs

1.

somewhere in the woods we left a cathedral, an altar
of crushed leaves and bare ass
stained glass windows of your eyes begging me not to look so deeply
inside your self when you come
and i hold your shivering vulnerability between my thighs

2.

we
are
apple
bottom
blossoms
in the glass blowers hands and mouth, melting into vases of spontaneous joy and sorrow,

the furnace of mysterious beauty

we have lost the maps to ourselves
and are reclaiming them now

we are reclaiming them now with mouth, teeth and hands
to taste and touch the glory of spit, juice and fingertips
your body my confusing, joyous, raucous temple
i am turning over the tables and shaming the priest for defiling the sacred profane
as just profane

i circle you 108 times with burning incense and chant your holy names,
baby, fuck, lover
like circling the peak of a consecrated mountain
and bury my sorrow in your sweet skin
this is my song of songs