at best

at best we are heros without capes
looking towards the clouds,

for rhyme, for shapes to move us
and chances to plug

whatever makes us feel important.

at best we are the opened books
being written on windshields,

before it rains. and the street cars
hum; itching for speed.

our songs collecting in ribbons
of water-like veins spelling stories

that always blame the weather
for directions lost. at best

we are a bridge, tunneling through
the wind, repenting to no one,

breasts exposed-fucking
the tide below.

at best we are sexy spring, growing
tall the smell of newness

we are lazy summer, to hot to care

we are fetid fall, killing what can not
endure the labor of winter.

at best we are augment, with nothing
but the past to set us free.

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.