Now gently--run your fingers down my spine
and press the indentations where the bone
is knobbed like ancient wood, where years unknown
are writ, fuel for the fire; the scalloped line
where knots mark out the casing of that rod
of wet green nerve, the tissues of the sense
that pulse with electric incandescence
beneath the skin, the secret flesh of God--
And where my skin rises as with a chill
under your touch, and where your hot palms press
my muscles will such living fires arise
that, like a pillar in the wilderness,
consumed by tongues of fire but burning still,
the light and heat of us inflame the skies.
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