forget the bread and the wine,
you are my meat and my mead, something older,
something primal and deep and filling.
forget art-- you are an artist
in the designs you trace on my skin, forget music--
your voice is the only melody i want to hear.
i leave cathedrals for the sanctity
of your cool, bright bed:
i fail catechism because the only doctrine i know
for sure is you, you are the only answer
i never question.
in your presence i learn grace, find temperance,
let you blow breath into parts of me
dormant since childhood: imagination, passion,
even innocence, since there is something
young and peaceable in believing
that you will not leave me to a foreign crucifixion.
you are my devotion, a ceaseless repetition:
i believe. i believe. i believe.