It was slick and warm between my fingers
thicker than melting wax watching it slide
like a slug’s path, dripping my semen
whispering a name, as silence answers
like a man drowning in his own spit
the stains that can’t be washed out
kneeling before the altar of your flesh
like the holy ghost of my cock rising
the first prayer, the fourth cigarette
yellow yokes of two birds in the bush
on stale bedsheets clinging to the dawn
like burned incense rising from my grave
