His Kiss

His kiss lingers,
lingers in the gentle hollow
below my navel,
lingers there the longest time
before moving on.

The world explodes to a field of wheat
golden heads prickling, weaving,
rolling in the sun.
The moment is forever warm, forever
warm and growing.

He promised me, oh,
he had promised me
the earth:
and was
the earth.

Climbing those sinewy mountains,
rushing breathless the valley slopes,
fingers explore, wandering aimless,
tripping easily over
foothills of his spine.

And his scent, his scent, sweet as autumn,
sweet as leaves, now
damp and clinging,
now
smoldering, aflame.

His taste, the lightest hint of sea-salt,
a spray of sudden coolness
from dark and secret caverns,
a deep cold well
against the parch of day.

And still he refuses to hurry,
though the tide threatens to return
in a wave that will break
with demon fury, open-mouthed
and thirsty, thirsty.

@jms 5may86