This lip-touch, this tight-kiss,
like spring light unveiling
fist-cold
hope in a lover's breathless
embrace.
There's a place in your heart
bright and cold as the grim-
grin of Ronald McDonald
standing out front of that
Katrina-gone,
Biloxi burger-joint, that cement
slab
edging Highway 90.
There's a place in your heart
bright and cold as the skin-sin
and thin-gin of a first kiss,
the thrust-lust teens once
touched, the softest egg
trembling in the last
minute of innocence.
All teens touch that clean dawn.
They slap that dawn
the way Amelia Earhart tumbled down
a forlorn morn, stumbled on a
long-gone
archipelago. There's a place
where yesterday breaks the shore of
today.
Where is that place?
If you have to ask,
you have no right to be there.
