On Screen Kisses
Seven Attempts.
One:
You can call it loneliness, digestion, picture, or obscurity
or love or the impossible
because we can’t have it.
The haste
of your mouth is like melted ice;
optimistic, untarnished.
Flowing like a river.
Ceased.
Second Kiss:
I’d like to consume the moonlight like vanilla ice cream
and let the melted parts fall down my face
and neck and chest.
I could burn my lips, but that’s nothing, compared
to the sweet, adhesive heat of summer
protecting your body like a golden hand.
Third Kiss:
And we’re shine-lit
on the hillside in
the only star.
Fourth Kiss:
The spirit has no glamour,
even in this midday sun, and still, like a screw,
I would raise it always, to drink
from the flowing well of your mouth.
Five:
Pulling a line made of mediocre touches,
searching for angels in the valley of your lips.
I investigated them hiding on your neck,
watched them rise and fall, white thoughts spinning
from a dandelion in low summer, remained
a lure made of quiet to gather them,
as if by impractical magic.
The cushioned string stretched itself like a lover’s hair
across the shawl of your shoulder,
the improperness of your collar’s subtle hollow and
the catalyst cast.
Sixth Kiss:
Am I trying to write indestructible autobiographies,
words that will deteriorate or stay complete?
More, I’m trying to scribe myself
in the pond of your soul,
moving my hands, signing my name
as a woman in your water.
How do I divide the constrict swipes of your body
from your eccentric highway light?
True, your body is only the first reflection.
Everything holds your aspect, love.
Transition in good hope,
cover all of me like the educated honey sun.
Seventh Kiss:
We left the blinds up last night
and the windows stayed open
so we could watch the snow and lightening
while the cyclone of your body
pressed its wrath against my sea.
Your rain damaged my ocean.
Useless, useless.
This delicate morning, you’re so
happy-go-lucky,
idle, fainéant, golden, and indolent
and making dream sounds in the titillating
deep beneath your yielded lips.
One:
You can call it loneliness, digestion, picture, or obscurity
or love or the impossible
because we can’t have it.
The haste
of your mouth is like melted ice;
optimistic, untarnished.
Flowing like a river.
Ceased.
Second Kiss:
I’d like to consume the moonlight like vanilla ice cream
and let the melted parts fall down my face
and neck and chest.
I could burn my lips, but that’s nothing, compared
to the sweet, adhesive heat of summer
protecting your body like a golden hand.
Third Kiss:
And we’re shine-lit
on the hillside in
the only star.
Fourth Kiss:
The spirit has no glamour,
even in this midday sun, and still, like a screw,
I would raise it always, to drink
from the flowing well of your mouth.
Five:
Pulling a line made of mediocre touches,
searching for angels in the valley of your lips.
I investigated them hiding on your neck,
watched them rise and fall, white thoughts spinning
from a dandelion in low summer, remained
a lure made of quiet to gather them,
as if by impractical magic.
The cushioned string stretched itself like a lover’s hair
across the shawl of your shoulder,
the improperness of your collar’s subtle hollow and
the catalyst cast.
Sixth Kiss:
Am I trying to write indestructible autobiographies,
words that will deteriorate or stay complete?
More, I’m trying to scribe myself
in the pond of your soul,
moving my hands, signing my name
as a woman in your water.
How do I divide the constrict swipes of your body
from your eccentric highway light?
True, your body is only the first reflection.
Everything holds your aspect, love.
Transition in good hope,
cover all of me like the educated honey sun.
Seventh Kiss:
We left the blinds up last night
and the windows stayed open
so we could watch the snow and lightening
while the cyclone of your body
pressed its wrath against my sea.
Your rain damaged my ocean.
Useless, useless.
This delicate morning, you’re so
happy-go-lucky,
idle, fainéant, golden, and indolent
and making dream sounds in the titillating
deep beneath your yielded lips.