I saw you standing there,
six foot two
glorious sideburns
swagger that you
didn’t know you had.

And I couldn’t decide
if I wanted to fuck you
or be you.

I turned the question
over and over
perpetual motion:
two sides of a slick coin
hidden in my corduroy pocket.

You are a wicked saint.

One to which I would gladly
bow down and pay obeisance.
I would wash your feet
with my hair,
if it were only
long enough.

I imagine you whispering
things sacred and profane
as my lips quiver,
yearning to crunch
the wafer of your body
drink the wine of your blood.

Instead,
I will keep you
at arm’s length,
praying to you
intermittently.

It is unwise to touch a saint.

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