I am monastic, yes, but not a monk—
Austere, ascetic, I abstain from drink
Yet, sloshing blood, my heart, engorged and drunk,
Trembles like a pen that spills carnal ink;
See how I slur my words? The Book beckons
But the night seduces with pages soaked
In Earth’s oil; When I write, I leaven
The mud. O, writer and written elope!
I’ve sought you since the dawn of time: your moans
I heard as I built mountain, sky, and fire;
They swelled like the sea and her sated foam
Until I could nothing but you desire.
And the monastery goes up in flames
And we, clenched, the smoldering soul do tame.
Written Thursday, June 22nd, 2017