But these kisses. . .
These kisses don’t sprint:
they slow jog the steep switchbacks
carved in cliff walls
by hooves of mountain goats
in the canyon
east of town.
These kisses swim pollywoggy
in dark underwater grottoes,
rub their backs on
cool blue stone.
These marmot kisses furryscurry home
to our sun-heated crack
in this granite rock.
These kisses sweat in the dark
like a nightshift coal miner
who wants to see his children
before they leave for school.
The other night one kiss fell asleep
and woke up under a taco stand
in East Los Angeles.
I’ve kissed before, been kissed before
but these kisses gambol out along the savannah
where we find lions
and lions
find us.
© Dean
Metcalf
1/15-2/6/2004
