I build an altar in my house, then tear it down for lack of devotions. My prayers are bruises left on the inside of your thigh, each mark one word in the sentence that climbs toward ascension. The litany of graces I am asking for: purple blooming on your neck, your chest, your shoulders, your hips. I purl you like a rosary, turning you over and over and over in my rough hands. 

In the beginning there was heaven and earth and rage, which mixed with mud to build my home. I have been void, restless, crawling over the face of this planet in search of soul, or apex predators. And then I saw your face, and I saw that it was good. 

When the grey clouds gather, they will already know your name: I have whispered it to every drop of mist that waits, like me, to fall. In the quiet moments before the thunderstorm sinks its teeth into the earth, I call you to service: let me worship with you, in the grace of your body. Let me earn, inch by inch, the sacrament of your taste.