but I would rather write poems about kissing,
beside the wild roses, for instance,
with nothing between us
but perfume and shadow.
Or kissing riverside
with waves frolicking into
our sighs. Or kissing anywhere,
really, a parking lot, a stairwell,
the front step, in a plane.
See how this urge turns
everything into a love poem,
even this, which began
as a poem about loss,
has found gardens inside it
with long rows just perfect
for kissing, slow kisses
both bruising and sweet.