Sunday Mornings

Sleep Sheets Bed Sex Feet Erotism In Love Toes
Lovers in Bed on a Sunday Morning

There are churches and then
There are cathedrals. Love is the latter.
That morning too, the wine glass was rich, silky and red
And the bread buttered like brioche
We sipped wine from each others glasses
And scavenged on each others dough
It was a beautiful routine on a Sunday morning
To be offered on an alter covered in a white sheet
A feeling that small habits billow into
Little miracles, like when candle light
Powers a sacrament of giving without condition,
Serving without sense or sensibility,
In to a tradition of interfacing the mortal with the divine
Until there is nothing left to transform
But the hysterical heaviness of breath
To the blissful lightness of parole.

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