Posts Tagged ‘kissing’

Tonight, it comes back, how we’d go for walks
in the tall dry grass behind the old school.
In my memory, the field goes on and on and
it never rains and we have no idea how young
we are. Sun-drunk and heat-starved, twin ripples
of wind. Broken grass in our hair and howl
in our skin. And we believed in forever then—

perhaps we touched it those summer days,
a strand of forever, forgotten for decades,
lost amongst other eternal strands—but oh,
those hands, those parted lips, that tall, trembling grass.

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I mean, are you kidding me?!



They’re just grapes, sure, but

more like what every kiss wants to be—

surprising and unpredictable.

Intensely sweet, spicy, too,

and tough, unwilling to be summed up,

making me pucker at the same time

I long for more, something

I happened to find in the store,

but the taste, the round essence, is wild,

unable to be tamed.

It’s enough to make a woman wonder

how she’s never tried this before,

as if the world’s been holding out on her—

and if this new thrill is possible, well, then

what else might be out there for a woman to find?

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Michelangelo wrote his love

forty-eight funeral epigrams—

not one of them brought back

the shoulders like chiseled marble,

the purr of his voice, his lips raw silk

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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.

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on a line from Ocean Vuong



The most beautiful part of your body

is the place your lover has just kissed,


how his lips remind you that you are also

orchid and apple and arch.


How easy it is to forget our own holiness.

How sweet when another reminds us of the ocean


still in our blood, the sand in our hair.

Call it communion, the way he touches you


and the way your own tongue leaves

a wet trail on his skin not so different


from those first attempts to crawl onto shore.

The most beautiful part of your body


is your longing to open more, everywhere

he touches, you become door.

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It does not matter
if you are right
or wrong. Kiss me.
There are terrible
things we have done.
Yes. Now kiss.
It is snowing.
I’ll kiss you. It is clear.
You kiss me. It is late.
There are so many things
left to do on our list—
such as kiss.
Though we are lost
and the day has fallen off
its chair, there is still
so much kissing
not to miss. Somewhere
there are snakes recoiled.
Somewhere there
are floods rising.
Here is our chance,
right beside the fruit basket,
for lips to find lips
and do for the heart
what a sparkler does
for the moonless night—
it may not go far,
that tiny light, but for
these moments,
it’s shining, it’s
light enough.

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check out this website devoted to found poems … today they published a poem of mine overheard on the chairlift last year …


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