You say innocence is the sexiest thing
as I rest my knee against your knee,
my foot against your foot.
We sit, small and meager,
beneath the dome of St. Paul’s, while
worshippers, immersed in Mass, hear
choir boys sing Haydn:
Praestet fides supplementum
Sensuum defectui
I look for God where you find Him,
in your closed eyes, your silent prayers,
and sense only the warmth of lust,
the guilt of wanting to ravish you.
Beneath the image of Christ,
I watch wine become blood,
bread become body in your belly.

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