Heated

Where your fingers brush my skin delights
in knowing secrets flesh has pledged to hold
…a subtle heat first sparks and then ignites
a fire within that will not be controlled.

And where your fingers tickle, I’m beguiled
to let all mystery slide through my throat
to fuel our holocaust, holy and wild,
incinerating all these words we wrote,

these words we used to make the night unfold
beneath us, tinder that each breath excites.
Your street clothes? Over there will do. So bold
you are! Here, help me out my Sunday whites

then lay me down, love’s sacrificial goat
where love’s most ardent dreams like wood are piled.

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