The Kiss
With fine motor tremor, in rapture tilts the head,
Half shut eyes, swathed scant scent,
Fresia and wild strawberry haunts nakedly
The throat.
Up close and personal, magnified each
Singular contour, tincture and pore
Of facial ambiguity.
And traces fingerprints on her cheek,
Relaying no Braille revelation;
Probing uncertainty, sensors brush nerves,
The bee sting of her lips.
A gleaned iota of prophecy foretells nothing
Of the kiss or the kiss not to be
Reciprocated at the nectarine integrate;
Evolve of moist realism.
Or, perhaps, to hang there unfulfilled,
Indelicate of savour and incomplete;
A torment, a frozen gasp for eternity,
To hunger?
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005
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