Call to god
Smell of a candle
spent.
Blown
as I left the water.
Small smoke curls
off past the lip
of a chalice like glass,
and slides away
scenting the black.
I use to
extinguish candles,
in a house of coloured glass,
marked with P & X .
In a non-dress garment,
red,
buttons to the floor.
Bored
in my woman state.
At the feet of the old
and mundane.
To cup the light
was what I looked forward to,
waited for.
That and incense
and ritual
of long lost meaning
and relevance
to the young.
The only time
I call to god now
is when I cum
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