The Kiss
That kiss is still moving,
lips pursed, migrating in time
until my own lips pucker
sensing bubblegum lipstick.
That unseasoned taste of young lips
now wayfaring and rekindled
within a hundred mature women.
Landfalls, rainfalls, waterfalls,
all that falling into willing mouths
as if we were parents to each other,
a consuming need
to nurture and be nurtured.
Then those savage collisions
where blood is the thirst,
where lip to lip, fevered senses
are ground into ash or embers.
All those lips perfumed with honey,
bitter root and raw moonshine,
all exploring ways to drown.
That first sweet kiss
still moving on, as a question
in transit, transient, yet as deep
as a desert succulent
or as light
as any other wild flowering.
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