Making Love On A Sunday

The sun is golden and warm, as we undress out of church clothes.

               You back is pale and soft, as you strike a statuesque and awkward pose,

               Pulling off your cream stockings, and then sit down on the edge of the bed,

               Your coifed black hair now wild and free, all pretense at perfection now fled.


               I strip on out of my pants and underwear, and sit beside you, kiss your cheek

               And touching your belly. You giggle, and lean into my kisses, no words to speak.

               We lay down, man and wife, another altar in a private place, flesh and spirit one.

               We make love in the hazy and soft sunlight, in this tenderness, a baser thing undone.


               Holding each other close, hearts racing, and sleep coming to seal the afternoon,

               Our bodies one flesh, and made new and holy as the world passes on without a swoon.

               You turn you face to me, and I kiss your lips, and we smile and laugh, so endless, so clear.

               We fall asleep in an embrace, just a temple for us in this bedroom, where all days disappear.



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