of all the tender taut and innocent
sacraments ive tangled with
celibate or seldom split
separate as which was writ
chaste in desperate ways
and raised of fitful faiths
patience praised and grace ordained
in face of these latter days
but what such traces must remain
of a phase lately lain to waste
and what such fates we two betray
as your sacred legs gave way
as sure as you are pure my love
"a touch of blood and so its done"
and though we spoke in tongues my love
would surely not send from above
all the slender soft and supplicant
sacraments ive sinned against
as if in which i might relive
your sanguine skin or sins therein
put prides and tithes aside if you must
but faith has nothing left for us
in stolen moments as such as this
by which i have placed my trust but
grace has no such place for us anymore oh
as sure as they were pure my love
ive chased of us in everyone
and though i know all fates succumb my love
what sanctifies my swollen sum
but the tender taut and innocent
freckled flesh ive tampered with
supped and split or suffered through-
whod vainly take this place of you