Leonid

Can we place a practiced kiss--

On forehead, sweet as peaches
And just as loaded with
Meanings, layers, and a poison pit?

On cheek, like a phone number
Learned by rote and worn to pieces
Benign as brushing teeth,
Hello, goodbye, banal and brief?

On lips. Locked, unlocked, or unhinged?
"I'm pissed," in bliss, coquettish hint?
In fire, warmth, or wintry dismissal,
In rhythmic, primal discourse
Where you've made your mark
With intentions often missed?

And can we sit with careful distance
Placed between our hips and faces?
Can we sit instead and ponder
Every quandary that exists?

The purple dome that rests above us,
Arching downward, gently freckled,
While we wait with bated breath,
And the heat that builds between us
Weighted with our expectations
Seems to press us ever closer
To our plaintive, precious question,
To the key contained entirely
Within the strained and reckless limits
Of a single, practiced kiss.