In a night of synaptic silence:
I eat out of the palm of your hand,
cupped round like a globe
to my curved lips,
silent as the bells
of abandoned churches,
where only the monk
runs his fingers along rusty ridges,
refusing to look at the stars.
He fondles his Bible
like an erect phallus,
as your fingers crawl
up my thighs.
Like the sound-waves
of his whispered prayers,
our bodies' hymns will fade
into a dusty dawn.
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