A Softness in the Ear

(after a phone conversation)

There are too many hours before dusk,
where one can become mislaid along
the hidden curves of the throat:
a burst
of laughter,
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 don’t 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.

*just a first draft. :)