for Mark

Who
is seductive as you, Man, who rallies inimical to my pitch-black melancholy with ardorous aplomb? No one.
Wit, a sly grin and whispered toss of scarlet locks betray your charm,
as surely as a spell wound tight about a bone and fleshy fetish.

You, my implacable demigod of deep thick wood and moonless night;
You, my Apollo, steeded chariot on fire, thrust freely through tangled limbs into pining heaven's void, ever pliant for your shooting beams.

I succumb; rapt Cupid breathes toilsome as he seats his fevered dart, blazing, deep through my cardinal Heart,
'till I, plunging rearward into celestial vacuity,
my carnal self unfurled, explode light luminous.

So does your Soul persuade me, not through holy invocation penitent,
but by dulcet murmur of sweet vermilion lips like silk my nape caressing; Pneuma speaks:
Fear not! for you are loved.

Easter Hymn to Mark
Donald William Francis Larson, April 16, 2006, New York