Entry June 12
Sleep late, nobody cares what time it is.
Sunday morning, coffee in bed . . . then love
with coffee flavored kisses. And your tongue dripping honey like a ripe fig.
I have been hours awake looking at you lithely at rest in the free
natural way rivers bed and clouds shape.
Your bedgown gathers up your full round thighs, rolls over your hips.
Your breasts are snub like children's faces . . . and your navel deep
as a god's eye.
Yes, your lips match your teats beautifully, rose and rose.
The hair of your arm's hollow and where your thighs meet
agree completely, being brown and soft to look at like a nest of field mice.
Praise be the walls that shelter you from eyes that are not mine!
Love, not prayers, shall be our offering this day.
We shall praise God with absolute embraces . . . our bodies shall sing Him
in His own incomparable tongue.
Prayer is humbleness, I cannot be humble with the wealth of you beside me.
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