A Poem A Day, Poem #43

the wild strawberries of your kiss still visit me
on days when the sun is full of steam and the body
moves with the slow deliberateness of lips opening
and closing for unconscious kissing,

and the sound of your breathing is a further
articulation of the lazy curl of your hips swaying to
a rhythm of the only dance that matters, our bodies
swinging and sliding down the miles of moons we
have imagined with make-believe hands
(and there are still secrets i carry with me to bed at
night),

but your voice is a place i have lost when it
is quiet and the world teeters on the buzz of wanting
to stack a string of wonderfuls on the stubborn stars
of this slightest swim of sleep,

and the mind waits for better birds to fly with
weightless wings, floating on the feathers of long
done days where every whisper was a meditation
on touching, where the lights were languid and
laying loosely to a dream, unwilling to fade, eventually
going quietly away and distant from reaching with
ripe fingers feeling for stolen strawberries, as sweet
and sad as the summer rain