The Kiss

The kiss begins in their fingers
in their toes a low hum like the sigh
that scythes October grass  It moves
like smoke through the dark halls of their blood
like water rising as smoke  a blue mist a haze
against their bones

Her flesh is soft music the stretched skin
of a drum his lips his fingers will play
drawing up the melodies as from a hidden well
He breathes her in her dark lustrous tones dark fire
of her that smolders at his touch  His lips
are singed by hers

How good it is to be awakened from death
and consumed, to burn to ashy cinder
and to rise again  And she, too, drinks 
at the sacred well  leans into the wings of fire
he opens for her so that the veil of her body
spangles into flame