There are too many hours before dusk,
where one can become mislaid along
the hidden curves of the throat:
of white space,
of delicate, corporeal vocals;
a counting of the harvest in cultural
rearing. The voice is a lover:
a span of the sensual sun, a nervousness
that lies low in the season, waiting or begging
for release. And the flutter of chest becomes
wet, a way to taste the tongue, or perhaps
a lead that one must pursue solely.
I say this before the rain in hopes of
encore or breadth -
I dont know why I like it. I just do.
O, if I were an atlas
a diagram that reveals warm breath on flesh,
I would gather the hum that cascades nicely
from the sweetened lip, sweep it to elite waters,
and drown in what could never be mine.