that full moon mood 

 

cold and bright cascades:

a twist, a press 

as a touch, wrung wistful 

grips shaped gasps

goosebumps, brushing thistles

a skyward buck

a smiling howl

and a cooling, bliss-ed

descent

 again. 

 

this is what worship

should feel like 

 

mouths mapping a collapsing curve 

drawn closer--too close 

to a white hot center

spelling love with wax wings

leaving marks while only 

partly melted

 

I'd die to live here

 as fingers tangle deep

deep in my hair 

til quenched;

flesh sated 

(for now)

but hearts never beating

too close, or too 

cradled .

 

and I pray that the scent stays on my clothes 

forever.