I try a likeness

Shapeshifting thru suburban fields of Sundays, gods and goddesses, all that lies buried within, daydreaming spirit in Sundays ever after, moving in muscles battling –

For a touch: who is your God, then? Who compasses your height and breadth? For who do you this moment draw your breath? And stop my anger, and raging fury, silence, just at a thought alighting like a pigeon,

Hidden in a meaningless calendar, my goddess comes, a wind around your secret essence, stirs my muscles tense: in longing, to taste your spirit-flesh.