That sweet, hot spirit
 wound up in beauty.
Oh, delicate possession,
 to tenderly touch, to stroke,
 to let loose those pent-up sighs.
You demand I separate
 the spiritual from the physical:
 that is my desire.


My fire,
 my little fire,
  I tend, tend, tend to you.
You are not ablazin’ o’er the earth,
 but you are enough
  to crackle with heat,
  to sustain a heart,
  to provide a hearth,
  to roast marshmallows over,
  to lick the ribs of embers
   with quiet flame,
  to entrance me into a reverie
   of my inner mysteries.