Mostly Wordless

Making love,
we are mostly oblivious,
inarticulate,
that delirious
human itch
struck dumb as desire
bites its tongue,
loving and hating
release when it comes.

There are no angels here,
but inside
that gibber of moans
and jabber of sighs,
God is somewhere
if He’s anywhere,
the body’s exaltation
perfectly glad,
joyful
as any hymn.

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