Two Trains Running (Into each other)

The Kiss

Shuns no shoulders,
queries ears
with quivers of fire.
Yet somehow more flower
than flare,
more tight splice
than splash.
Is the lipping
of the brim of me,
spiced rum
tipping the tongue of me.
Interlocks the fingers
and dilates all diligence
with a hiss from the heart
of  a rabid radiator.
All melting wax to
my stiff wick,
it burns the softest
and most breathless
of all silences,
such glossy velvet now
as it glances,
a moistness that veers
on voluptuous violence.

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