Would that it would be
for a certain span of time…
a slowly flesh-world,
Touch its every language.
A kiss
Punctuation for every movement. My
flesh, you see,
cries in a certain way for its world:
to be made real by a mirror,
slightly awry;
–parts exchanged for stranger-shapes,
Arms a pretzel-sweet embrace, describing
arcs in time,
tongues tasting wine,
Each other’s fingers courting our own
valleys and
moons and
making sure
that exquisite sunsets will be
again and again
followed by dawn.
Stephen Bolles
All rights reserved
1979