Saturday, February 07, 2009

Turning the key that tightens the drum

RUMBLE (deep)

Nosing it
like a fragrant neck,
I run my thumb
along the hips
of a snifter of scotch.
My tongue glistens
in anticipation
of a half sip,
careful as
a first kiss,
then a pause
to let it pool
in the mouth
before a swallow
slow as wings
drifting on
the warmth
of an updraft.
I know how a finger
of moonlight
through the window
can taunt.
How a CD
can repeat
until it loops
into the DNA
of loneliness.
How a single malt
tries to build
its case
in the back
of the mouth.
I know too,
that what swirls
in this glass
is a whirlpool
with no bottom.
So give me
the moon's finger
on your ankle,
time
to silently
memorize the map
of your tongue
or huddle
in the hollow
of your heat,
listening
to the splash
of your laughter.
I dream of a path
that winds
down the coastline
of your spine,
But wake
to a wandering hunger:
awaiting the day
my tongue
curls like a wave
across the
soft beach
just above
your collarbone.
Post a Comment