Friday, July 20, 2012


Been playing with this in different versions, this is the latest. Not totally sold on it yet.

Noses it
like a perfumed neck,
then runs a thumb
along the hips
of a snifter.
The tongue glistens
with a half sip,
cautious as
a first kiss,
a swallow
drifting on
the warmth
of an updraft.
You know a single malt
builds its case
in the forecastle
of the mouth.
You know too,
what whirls
in this glass
is a pool
with no bottom.
So you dream instead
the moon's finger
on an ankle
thin as a crystal flute,
imagine the
dark dictionary
of her tongue
or what's held
in the parentheses
of her pout.
You plan a plant
that winds
up the mountain range
of her spine,
But awake
in a blooming garden,
looking skyward
towards the day
your tongue
is a green vine
curling around the
bare brown
of her
fence posts.

Until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)
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