Notes, Notes

(NOTE ON THE KISS: The tongue can taste itself,
can tell the time by where the tension’s stored:
at the roof, if not the gums, if not the floor—
if not the body that surrounds the mouth.
And the lover, if there is a lover, waits
at the door, always, for an answer: let him in.
Curious sight and grip and whisper—curious grin.
He wipes his face away, but leaves the taste.)

THE LOVER:
You haven’t kissed me like that in a while.

THE POET:
You haven’t let me.