Night-doves drive light before them like gauchos.
I breathe through my heart with Your lips
and a hundred fingers dance with flavor.
There is mercy in all that glimmers
a glamour in the dark moist falling apart
of musk and wine.
I bathe where we meet in this rose of passion.
You are cupped like a mouth,
a tangible palpation
of Your longing to be known.
I am the drunken prayer of a wild gaucho
driven by the light
of a softly darkling dove
to the chasm of Your tavern.