piņata sky
Across the duck-pond bench we
lie, still as garden sculpture,
but for
this kiss.
Every color, numb
to the sounds around us.
Migrant mutts
and frisbee dogs,
toddler arms pinched
in water wings, birds of passage
doing battle for a sidewalk
cracker crumb. Polo,
Marco Polo. Every sound
is locked away, silenced
by the rhythm of your kiss,
finding mine, gently
letting go,
fiercely finding every fold of
lip again, teeth, tongue.
Colors of, oceans of, touches of
kisses, nibbling through a
bright piņata
sky.
M Madison
28 may 01
blndrjn02
|
