Odd how we only kiss

face to face—I want the back

of my skull to know yours,

I want that primordial

rush of ocean when

your ear mouths mine,

when my navel lies

on yours like a sand dollar,

tails on tails. I want

our ankles to rub enough

fire to wet our tongues,

jig to saw, turret to trench.

I want our elbows

to neck. I want our fingers

to steeple, sign language

of noses, feet the sky

from whence I comma,

you chandelier, we chevron.

Image by: John Tracy