Non-Erotic PoetryMiracles of SundayThis one I have trusted
to sip from my wineglass
while our arms entwine
on the sacred altar
conjured up in my mind
as gray matter spills
slippery thoughts,
and I ask that he cradle
my confessions at hand
and not let them slide
through his fingers.
Hold the wine,
hold my thoughts,
hold me dear.
Captive in these dreams,
I don’t want to rise
so I continue to pray
this day will remain;
an endless, miraculous
Sunday.
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