Kissing You
Later it’s not
not just once
but a hundred
thousand times—
and countless
in
that hundred
thousand…a
thousand
plus one—but
first
it was
between almost
and happening,
still
arriving at
One.
Cliffs give way
beneath petites,
our twin splints
of lips quiver
above one
another,
as though they
are on their
own
without us
and it’s breath’s
hush that pulls
our pushes—
there’s no way
getting ‘round
it—
we can’t leave
off, we press
into the firth,
on a slim
kayak of wind
and…today is
a slow, slow
day…there’s
rain
a touch of frost
thawing
in each drop
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