PIPE

In the darkness
She reads his mind,
Brailing the sure heft,
The extent of his body.

Considered kisses
Are soft as cotton;
She can ignite them
Like matchsticks.

Then coolly watch:
They’ll burn slo-mo
All the way down,
Kiss her fingertips.

Cocooned by breath
Shaped like a kiss,
Think--the perfect color
Should be called 'Kiss,'

Would stick irresistibly
And ever so lightly
As if reluctant
To separate.

Usually, only sleep
Casually divides them--
Wait, and they fuse again
Confused by dream-space.



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