A kiss has its own topology

[ A kiss has its own topology ]


Chanced to find an iris and the coming across of puddles, again, my lover
under the one oak tree in a silk skirt silk scarf and sneakers. And

gloves. Somewhere a moss-covered stone. Somewhere a stone clove
covered ground. No hail under the long rock nevertheless

so here you are again and; beyond the circle of intertwined daisies
I'm hurrying ambitiously to get somewhere. I don't think I have ever been

happier in the dark that was offered in the very marrow of writing.
Thus words are sounded so so nothing is moistened with meaning.
Across the way is rain the sky is throwing the unborn pattern

of temporary rain against the whiteness. A swarming up a rough
root-skin. Swarming madly. Bees gathering. The sting of a bee is

barbed, like a hook in a fish mouth but of course the bee doesn't
have to worry about what comes next. This is the love for which I had
no training. The union I transposed into a dark scribble

which became my lover calling, calling my name to stifle me. It occurs to me
each morning I've sucked nectar from when I was pleasant. I leaned against

the curtain and watched her slow exit from the car. It's better to have loved
and lost than to have wintered in the tool shed. For a moment, though, regret

like leather on the soles of my shoes thinning. This morning I cradled
away from the possibility I'm terrified via your flesh, your unbearable pitch.

There is sex in the bushes, as swift and tangled and maddening as anything
else. If this is correct then how much does it matter? What if all the molecules
in your body were to chance to travel in the same direction?

according to such and such and such; somewhere unseen a kiss
of wind sways a willow above a lake.
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