Tuesday, May 10, 2011

a kiss

a kiss stays trapped, composed, ambiguous
collecting wait

like elephants grazing-but we can not
accept the touch

or breath its air
until there's room in it for the both of us.

there is a first kiss and a last,
ones that lead us to our death

and past, hiding middle ones
on the neck

to be remembered on mondays.

and there are others of course
less interesting kisses. forgettable

moments easily paid for, played for
thrown away in vain for

a cup of accession.

a kiss, tasting like december
and carmax. or cigarettes,

or vodka cranberries, or both.

and morning air kisses, warming
toes in woolen socks,

with you
wiping cold nose off you cheek.

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