Across the duck-pond bench we
lie, still as garden sculpture,
but for this kiss.
Every color, numb
to the sounds around us.
Migrant mutts and frisbee dogs,
toddler arms pinched
into water wings, birds of passage
doing battle for a sidewalk
cracker crumb.  Polo, 
Marco Polo.  Every sound
is locked away, silenced
by the rhythm of your kiss,
finding mine, gently letting go,
fiercely finding every fold of 
lip again, teeth, tongue.
Colors of, oceans of, touches of
kisses, nibbling through a
bright piñata sky.


28 may 01
M Madison