Savior

Bathing you, bathing you,
in accent of the quail,
my tick-tick-tick against your shell.

I want to strangle little things,
that seek me with little eyes.

Your petite egg in roses,
the wilted cry of life.

The closeness of coming,
the death and the delight.

Flesh is a servant, middle mongrel,
the spirit ever the bride.

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